


A Murder of Ravens

by AbandonedWorld



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crime Scenes, Drama, Edgar Allen Poe Based Poem, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Government Testing, Humor, Imprisonment, M/M, Mild Language, Prison, Ravens, Serial Killers, Torture, the raven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-28 05:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 69,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbandonedWorld/pseuds/AbandonedWorld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier is wrongfully accused. Erik Lehnsherr is a top-notch homicide Lieutenant who stumbles upon the case of a lifetime: a serial killer targeting mutants–and only mutants. Charles bides his incarceration waiting on a miracle, reciting Poe's timeless gem in effort to retain his sanity...</p><div class="center">
<br/><i>"Leave my loneliness unbroken!–quit the bust above my door!<br/>Take thy beak from out of my heart, and take thy form from off my door!<br/>Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"</i>
<br/></div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eagerly I wished the morrow;–vainly I had sought to borrow

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I've taken a long enough respite for Nanowrimo and Christmas & have returned with a big (and I do mean big!) piece of prose. This story is well over 50k words at present (as I completed my first ever Nano!) and I've finally edited enough to begin posting here – wahoo!
> 
> Couple things–
> 
> Very very big AU warning for this. Absolutely nothing of the movie (outside of the likeness of James McAvoy and Michael Fassbender's characters and their beautiful romance!) were used in this story! This is a complete standalone, insofar as its originality. It's also set around Edgar Allen Poe's genius piece of literature glory, "The Raven" so quotes will be used for each chapter title as well as thrown in throughout. They are all significant, so be sure so keep them in mind!
> 
> Lastly, it's a full-on murder mystery and power play with many MANY key characters involved. It's a heavy heavy fic, and will be well over 100k words when complete. I've taken liberties with time frames and to make things fit and I've flipped some very current technologies back in time and then forth again. I've tried to keep as much of the traits of XMFC's characters at heart, but forgive me if I stray just a bit!
> 
> I also love dashing–words, strengthening in **bold** and _italicizing_ just about everything I deem pertinent to a given sentence. It's an addiction I know many of you partake in as well.
> 
> Final note - BIG thank you (to any of you!) for giving this one a chance. I'm sure I'll add tags as I remember them and edit the summary a dozen times until I'm satisfied. But I thank you in advance. Because I louvre you's gaiz.

  
  
_  
**Part I:**   
_   
  
_A Murder of Ravens_

Chapter 1: _Eagerly I wished the morrow;–vainly I had sought to borrow_

  


_______________________________________

 

Two hands were wound up like fresh fishing wire; clenching fists and pale too-white skin being stretched taut–a straining effort to remain in control. Of the situation, of _his_ situation.

There were vertically parallel bars, steel hand-painted over in a smooth grey, enhanced in a satin finish that was polished to a slippery perfection. Seventy-five of these steel unmoving reeds partitioned him away from the nearest cage, from the world itself, but Charles' mind couldn’t ever be locked away.

Not really, anyway. Or so he lazily contrived to himself.

Charles coughed lightly, mouth dry and lips ropy from the silence sequestered upon him. Blackness ensconced his person; the onyx-cotton uniform he wore had been thoroughly cleansed during his time spent _here_ , that it was now left feeling light and malleable against the hardened skin it laid upon. Its muted color was nothing if not completely undesirable, nor in stark contrast to Charles’ once up-beat personality.

The t-shirt cut style of his designated clothing was nothing but a hassle–an _additional_ tribulation to his everyday living arrangements. But that was more irksome than anything of pressing import. Devil in the details and all that. _But_.

Rules were rules, no matter how irreverent they may be.

 _‘No long-sleeves here, sorry **mutant**.’_

 _‘Oh_ well,’ he would oftentimes mutter to himself. The mind-reading telepath, who hadn’t volunteered a lengthy stay in such the foreign land, held these types of conversations regularly. Here, there was little else for him in the ways of intellectual stimulation, and thus, Charles found his niche by arriving at its lonesome front door.

Talking for the benefit of his own sanity was a way of existence–a thing he needed. And so Xavier hadn’t felt ashamed by its desperate facade. Quite the opposite really, as he found his own mental meandering thoughts of particular interest now more than ever before.

 _But his uniform._

Each day, the morning hours saw fit to bring him a newly-washed set of that constant two-pieced depressing ensemble–all pairs heavily worn but nonetheless, threads to call his own. No matter what the appearance might have wrought him. Or forced Charles to appeal.

The former professor of genetics–the sweater-vest wearing, english loafer owning, rich-young-man life now bore the convictions of a prisoners attire.

The black fabrics of a guilty mans dress.

That fateful shade of black–always, forever black. It was _his_ chosen color. Not _hers_ , or even _the other mans_ , but Charles'. It was another way to be segregated, separated and made different in a place where oddities and mismatched DNA were viewed as less than ideal. Like pointing gentle, accusing fingers at an orange-striped man swallowing flaming swords. Everyone would stop and stare if they could. If _everyone_ had even known of him **or** this place, that is.

This formality of living was nothing more than a rusted nail catching stranded fibers of sanity as it careened down into the wood of his proverbial life-coffin; brushing past the days and months as it pulled Xavier further along, down and down into a place unlike any Charles had ever been witness too.

 _His mind._

Charles' mind was, _well_.

Somewhere along his captivity, it had quietly taken on the characteristics of a weather-beaten door, or _no_ , rather a paint-chipped padlock– _or_ perhaps it was not unlike a pool of stagnate water, muddied and brown and acrid now after so much time burned gone. Endless seconds misspent and misshapen by the _humans_ who ran this...facility.

Humans who feared and loathed. Humans who didn't understand, nor care to discover any shred of-.

Charles dropped his thoughts there and moved on to the physical world; an awareness and a observance of the day's events–coming, going, gone. Mundane and mind-numbing. He longed for outside cities and their stimuli, chock full of whirlwind consciousnesses and thought-provoking interactions. With people. Human or mutant or else. Charles didn’t care if he _overheard_ the family pet as it begged for time with its too-hurried masters.

Well, had that even been feasible, he wouldn’t have minded.

Being useless was a fate worse than death for Charles Xavier. And here? _Utterly useless_.

But then... _there_ –thick and powerful and abrasive scents shrouded his macabre thoughts– _if_ handled haphazardly, one might wield the perfect escape using such solutions, but alas. Charles focused in on the sloshing sounds those particular cleaners gave way to and hung his body in a fashion that spoke of bored repose.

The heavy scent of cleaning fluids were always present at this time of day, on _this_ day of the week. _‘Must be Thursday,’_ Charles lead out. Lemon-scented scrubs were pooled across the smooth surface of the floors, while the palpable remnants of ammonia- _that didn't quite seem up to the task of human waste removal for all its watered-down properties now_ -lay rippling in its own pail. And an almost Christmas-like hint of pine swirled within his confines, permeating his nostrils and creating a perfect symphony of seasonal overhaul. It reminded him of bright multi-colored lights and expertly wrapped gifts. And a religion he could no longer recall, nor care to believe in.

As it was.

Charles had routines these days, schedules, check-lists; wash, rinse, repeat.

Nineteen months of _this_ had brought him to a near heart-stopping standstill. At least, mentally. Physically, he was...Charles was a lean man now–the days to his ownership of a slight belly-pouch having long since vanished; social gatherings and the sharing of alcohol had been taken from him many nights before, replaced with this strict, self-induced rigorous pattern. Exercise had become a reprieve amidst the boredom of it all. Boredom and...well _other things_.

Course, there _were_ the unprovoked beatings. And the midnight molestations– _verbally_ of course. At least until that next level is finally breached. _'And really, who knows when that might be?'_ or so Charles questioned it–and himself–routinely.

But his skin. Gone were the wealthy days of posh living and the prideful wearing of his Xavier namesake. Away were the times of great care and lavish comforts that held him safe and warm. His privileges were nothing more than fading memories now, waiting silently for him to return. If ever he had the chance.

 _But his skin._ Different now–depreciated and rough–it told the tales of midnight terrors and vindictive callings that had come from the lingering imprisonment of tight spacing. And anger. So much anger had been wasted upon him.

And _for him_ , exclusively. Because he was... _what_ he was.

A rich telepath from England. In all honesty, was there any other _valid_ reason to project such ugly hatred? Oftentimes, Charles attempted to reason with himself, as to what other facets his literal being might have done to ignite such a loathing. Such disturbing fear.

And oftentimes, Charles came up empty with such a task. There simply _was_ no reason to hate at the extent he had been privy to.

His hands traced along the imperfections that lain there now–on his own skin, and a tightness gurgled below; where in the depths of his choking throat, regret and the marriage of this new metempirical existence was unyielding.

It was a constant hardship to accept _this_ life. Charles knew it would always be this way. So long as he was _here_.

Even after he had been shut down and locked out from all embers that might have produced a glimmer of hope; even when the sustaining tact of self-preservation was lost long ago, Charles could do little but watch on as a visiting blood moon witnessed the death of humanity as he knew it. As he sat alone and aching for another _chance_.

A way to erase _all_ of this, to kill the anamnesis that grasped total reign over his mind.

Shifting around on the thin cot he had coined Solace, Charles' legs were stiff and tight. His mind whirled with emotions and tangible scents as the soft pads of his fingertips danced atop the changed points of his pale dermis. He looked down on himself. The black fabric of his _guilt-trodden_ uniform melted into the ebony of his sheets, now tattered at the ends and frayed from overuse.

Affectionately, his sneakered feet brushed against the corners of the paper-like quilt in a reassuring method, one that reminded him of his Manor's study room–more specifically, the golden-brown couch he had spent many a night reading and resting upon.

Oh how he had longed to lay there if only for one more night. Lay there and listen to the velvet-like cadence of his Raven's voice, of her simplistic troubles or mentally detail the vivid blue of her scaled skin. Charles so desired to see the wild red flame that emanated from her hair, as she sat cross-legged in front of a fire. If only to watch on as a frostbitten winter's eve drew out snake-like tendrils of rising steam as it escaped from their nightly cup of tea.

Charles ached to have _his_ life returned–as unscathed as possible, thank you very much.

Yet, there _was_ no telling how different it would all be now.

Alas, today though, he chose to focus on the texture of his altered form–concurrent with his time spent here in prison. You couldn’t ponder the one and neglect the other.

Charles could now, quite literally, count the scars that littered his roughened skin with absolute clarity. Not all inflicted by the angered, ignorant hands of his human captors, _no_. There was _her_ and there was _he_ to consider, when mapping the new landscapes of his reformed physique. Not all of these changes were bad, per se.

Hard muscles and shadows of visible strength appeared across his stomach, these days his arms and legs were toned and pulled and lean, _but_.

Charles suspected his mind to be the weakest it had ever been. An ache he couldn't possibly attest to with coherent dialect but one he would-. _'No. Not today.'_ To distract himself from such depressions, Charles let his thoughts go free and allowed his hands to speak to his experiences.

Whenever he felt adventurous, as was the course set for this particular morning, Charles would remain as he was–calves and hamstrings stretched out in front of him, a solid backbone set against the white brick wall built behind, and it was then he would just _think_ about _them_. All of them.

There were four evenly-spaced indentations snaking down the bicep of his left arm–tiny holes on either side of the scarred skin lining the journey of the staples he had received to mend them–but a rosy-pink shade told of their healing long ago. _'No matter.'_ There were the piercings of three canine teeth, having greedily left pitted marks on the bottom and top portions of his right hand in their fevered quest. _'Who cares for such marks?'_ Lest he forget the broken jaw he had to have wired shut or the seven stab wounds _she_ had gifted him–an inch shy of lacerating his liver–or the broken noses, fractured fingers–two of them, _twice_ –and the four concussions _both_ had freely subjected him to. _'Is there no more?'_

It was a sad state of affairs Charles had been surviving for those long nights and painfully short afternoons. Nineteen months, eighteen days, eleven hours and forty-one minutes.

Forty-two...

Forty-three...

Charles Xavier was imprisoned wearing the shrouds of a guilty man, all without conviction or any trace evidence of justice having been fulfilled. And so he fought. And fought.

A fight so hard, so viciously and so passionately, Charles bored on for the truth to meet the right minds before it was too late for him.

Everyday he fought and everyday the battle was lost for him.

Having very little to go on once his proclamations made their rings to be known, Charles knew...there was nothing more to be done but watch as the sun rose, golden, warm and omniscient at his back. It has born witness and knows of his plights–those whispered secrets coming in breaths as they're gasped, gargled and stolen–its yellow glow comforting him when the worst of those times veer off course, and somehow, get harder than the all the rest. It offers him a peace without wanting anything in return.

The sun asks nothing of Xavier because he has _nothing_ to give.

So each morning Charles wakes early, giving small honor to the universe and its wondrous acts in keeping him alive, by baring sight to the mornings birth. Even if all that surrounds him wishes anguish and death upon his beating heart. And all that hurt. There's much hurt.

Charles keeps himself and holds himself when all else does not.

As it stands it _was_ , after all, Thursday morning. And the golden globe of fire and magnetism made its center behind him as it had done hundreds of times before. Slivers of warm light cast out through the shape of his rectangular window onto the pristine tile floor, the day having just begun. It was calm, peaceful even.

A respite in the midst.

Miniature and pathetically narrow in stature, those windows offered _just_ enough room to allow Charles a view of the outside world. Or perhaps, a way for the operators and persons in charge to grant him a visceral desire of wishing hopelessly for things he may never have again. Freedom. Free will. Free _everything_.

But. Quicker than Charles would have liked, that moment of pure, unbidden clarity became a part of his past. Like all the other enjoyable memories from his former life. Gone and gone away too early, like patterns of flittering dust as they float around aimlessly in the suns path. Those particles shimmer as they glow by, in the fleeting interval prior to them vanishing; before becoming one with the solid concrete casing that was suffocating him.

Taking life from Charles, minute by minute. Lest he not count the seconds.

A jingle of keys sounded off in the distance distracting him then, and two cerulean orbs turned to look out of seventy-five metal rods in curiosity.

The audible had been a reminder of the scheduled janitorial work having been nearly complete, a recollection of smells slipping back into his memory; fluids were be soaked up over the crisp, white-squared floor just outside of _her_ cell, showing him that the mornings chores had indeed, been more than halfway through.

Charles enjoyed watching the removal of filth–the wiping of dirtied surfaces in hopes of clearing out the old and giving way to an arrival of a fresh beginning.

This was a visible representation of desires he had held for nearly two years now, in respects to his own story. He wanted this nightmare to disappear, replaced with a new life, one clean and bubbled full of a future and possibilities.

His mind was the filthy and the desperate, and one an eradication no Thursday janitor could mop into a mold of his past–but Charles did his best to swallow back the pain.

Still he hoped as best he was able, while mindlessly watching this other man work; _free_ to be in the world unaffected by DNA but chosen and in turn, chained to this hell of a job. Guilty in the presence of those wrongfully accused. Well, Charles thought, _him_ at least. The others...hadn’t the clean slate Xavier possessed.

Charles watched the janitor skate his way around bleached tile, the facility's hallway floor near sparkling now, as hands gripped the splintering wood handle of an aged mop. As though it might wish to attack him. If _only_ that had been Xavier's mutant ability. He would throttle– _‘Scott was it? Scott, yes that was it’_ –as fast, as hard, as efficient and as _quickly_ as he could.

Maybe.

Snapping his thoughts from murderous plotting, Charles hung his forearms on the silver shelves that made up the structure encased around his person. Leaning forward, his short hair, brunette but wavy still, rested lightly against the bars as he silently watched on. _Scott_ was twirling and all but dancing now, making a less-than-straight line down the pathway as though he had weathered the worst of a hurricane.

In all fairness, _she_ was a tough girl to get _that_ close too, even though Scott was a free man and _she_ was locked away–just as Charles was. The relief that rolled off of those lean shoulders as the facility employee made his journey away from her was nearly tangible, but it did nothing for Charles' mood.

Nothing but worsen it. Happiness of any kind in this place seemed almost comical–or no. Happiness was downright creepy in Charles’ not-so-humble Oxford opinion.

But then there were always those _goddamned_ devices.

The man–as any other worker of this complex would–wore a telepathic inhibitor, _or_ : a ridiculous cranial cover that wrapped the circumference of the skull. It was an outright restriction against Charles and any mental or telepathic access he might wish to deploy.

There was no bigger a _fuck-you_ than those oddly-shaped contraptions.

Charles stared at the thing around Scott’s stupid head and grumbled as though foul food were placed just beneath his nostrils. A whisper then, _'bullocks.'_

This hand-picked item of protocol nearly killed Charles when he had first arrived, all those too-long months ago. To have learned that a certain three-letter government organization had _somehow_ stumbled upon a Russian technology that... _barred_ him from _hearing_ or _altering_ anyone's thoughts was. Well, unnerving to say the least.

But he had gotten accustomed to it–as used to it as any telepath might have become–but like all other facets of life in the facility–the _prison_ –Charles hated it. Loathed it more than anything he had ever thought he might have hated before. Which was nothing.

Charles Xavier wasn’t a man prone to hold hate deep in his heart. Well, not until he was thrown into this hell, he wasn’t.

Sighing with discontent, Charles gazed on uninterestedly as Scott damn near sashayed himself down towards his own private nightmare. Cellblock: forgotten, on a corner of heartache and misery.

Inwardly, the mind-reading Brit found himself gritting teeth whenever that gym-rat, cocky bastard had come close to him, but understading his current predicament–that is to say, locked away–there was little to be done to rectify his sour attitude. And Janitor Scott's blatant tendencies to be an asshole around the telepath seemed almost laughable when considering the life Charles had once called his own.

Course the joke _was_ on him now. After all, Xavier was the one tucked away with the scarlet _M_ burned into his ever-expanding dossier. This leather tell-all held tightly to the chests of the higher-ups that wanted nothing to do with the man personally, but everything to do with him genetically, or so Charles contrived to himself. Another frustrating happenstance for Xavier that made his living here sometimes worse than death itself.

But.

"Charles."

" _S_ cott." The s’s were always drawn out in mock arrogance–something Charles was of course, well experienced in.

And that was that. Every Thursday, their _greetings_ were most notably of the forced kind and did nothing to help or hinder either's mood. Though, it always worsened Charles by a degree or so until breakfast was brought out, but that was not for Scott to know.

Scott was _just_ an asshole that worked there, mopping floors and scrubbing the latrines. And Charles was _just_ a prisoner to Asshole Janitor Scott.

Charles watched as the man nodded back in the direction of _her_ partition. "She's in rare form today, X. Just a heads up... _oh enlightened one_." Charles' hands balled into iron-like fists, solid and ready, at the sound of Scott's voice as it spoke at him.

 _'Three seconds. Three seconds without that fucking helmet on...'_

Murderous wishing staved at bay _again_ , Charles nodded and _almost_ rolled his eyes to finalize his non-response. He felt the veins in his arms fill and expand with thumping blood boiling and racing through his body; his heart was slamming inside his chest, arms and back and neck and legs wanting to break free and _handle_ the taunts as any free man would have been allowed: with brute force.

 _Unseen_ force, but brute nonetheless.

Charles couldn’t remember a time when he had been driven to a red-hot stage of anger so quickly in his past, but deduced it was simply another symptom of life in the facility.

Prison changes a man, and though Charles had always heard of such dark, tumultuous rumors, he had now found them to be more than just a little accurate.

Scott was still standing there.

"What? Not in the mood to chat today, _Oxford_?" Relentless and acting like something out of a theatrical comedy, something uncharacteristic as per their usual Thursday's, Charles wished nothing but the worse for this man and his baiting.

It was odd, his drawls for conversation–and infuriatingly so–but still, it was not enough to engage Charles into an even deeper cavern of rage and incredulity.

So.

Charles didn't indulge the man but rather opted on an unusual impulse and refused to open his own mouth, no matter how he had desperately longed for the conversation. _Any conversation_. But _no_. Charles simply slung his arms atop of the chilled metal and gazed on as the worker continued with his daily objectives.

A mop here, a full-circle swipe there. Charles watched silently as the tight squeeze of the slovenly-string ropes at the base of the wooden apparatus dripped beads of brown water, until finally, Scott disappeared down the only lime-green pathway adjacent to Xavier’s pathetic corner of the world.

 _'Bloody wanker.'_

But then came familiar tendrils of something Charles was very much missing.

A dare had risen inside of him as a result.

Thoughts careened into his mind then, and with them came the overwhelming desire to slither through _her_ consciousness–if you could call it that. Or _his_ , for all it would be worth. _'No, Charles, **no.'**_ A quiet reprimand to reign himself in; a reminder of what had, and _could_ happen again to him, ringing obtrusively in his piqued ears.

A frozen chill crept its way up the strong bones of his spine; it felt as though ice were cascading _up_ , not down, in patterned waves of crystallized transparency.

Charles shook slightly and made himself forget all desires of wanting to read another’s mind.

So he pondered over only that with which he was able.

In the commotion of things, Janitor Asshole had mentioned the attitude of one of Charles’ fellow inmates, more precisely _her_ , and her particular mood on this typical start to a usual day. Usual, right.

Charles thought briefly back to his last encounter with _her_ and shivered. _'Was it that time of the week already?'_

 _That time_ meaning: twice during the seven-day week period, the three of them–facility property, as you were–would be taken, shackled and blindfolded, out onto a veranda, of sorts. An effort allowing the prisoners to "stretch their _freak_ legs." Bands of cloth were used to shroud their eyes, with each color matching the uniform of its chosen person and their attire, but were promptly lifted upon arrival to this high altitude balcony.

This meant black for Charles, red for the other _him_ and yellow for _her_. A German patriot might have been pleased by the array of national colors. It was merely procedure though, and nothing more.

The balcony always fascinated Charles, however. He knew the high-skyward altitude served the purpose of resisting escape, though each of the two males and one female _were_ bolted to a wall and left there for the period of one hour. Hands wound behind themselves, wrists twisted and propped against the small of their backs. Their fingers could scrape against the crimson-brick wall that was there, flush to their spines, but they could no more. Movement was extremely limited, thus leaving the temptation to otherwise free oneself to be as practical as that of a wooden shoe. Or so the powers that be had presumed.

Charles thought the entire thing to be a waste of time–not that he was short on time, _no_ , he had plenty of that–but somewhere inside himself he was grateful for the opportunity of fresh air.

A city–Xavier wasn’t sure which–sprawled out before and around each of them, and as much as the telepath wanted to hate this routine, the sights _were_ pleasing–if not just a little untidy.

But escape. Futile, it would have seemed. Their positions and their chaining supposed that the three of them would have but one hour to act as though they were free of their sins. Or, one hour to pray for another to break out of the icy restraints and worsen their own stays. Maybe though, it was one hour to raise hell with their bloodthirsty lips and wicked words–all always aimed at each other.

Each of the three hated the other two. Viscerally.

Why though, was _she_ in a particular way today, Charles couldn’t begin to surmise. It was too full of the many layers of deceit, all shrouded in acts of fear and outward disgust. Therefore, it could be just about anything causing _her_ to be as she was. Perhaps it was merely her existence as a general rule of thumb–a cocky guess laden in the forefront of Xavier’s mind.

Or...maybe it had been last week’s outdoor deck adventures that had left them nearly frozen by the poor late-November weather. And their shotty, inadequate dressings.

It _was_ a simple truth that neither of the three were cared for well enough, as the facility itself was the only thing kept in ship-shape, but if they were to continue piling them outside...well. He recalled then how _her_ agitation had steadily built as she stood shaking with the frost-bitten weather than crept into her bones. That was reason enough for a foul mood, but that was– _Charles counted to himself_ –four days ago already.

Had she been made weary of their next bout of “activities,” Xavier couldn’t say for sure, but-

Charles broke his mind away from considering last week's hourly session, but delegated specific memory and energies to be spent upon _her_ proclamations, as he recalled from her that day. Perhaps it would lead him in the direction of her _exceptional_ temperamental reasons that Scott had just made _another_ mention of.

 _Or_ , it could lead him nowhere, because Scott _was_ such an asshole.

But she was...

For all the devil he knew her to be, Xavier couldn't resist the beauty of that appearance and the lure to her deadly gifts. She was, as he had come to discover, indestructible. _‘And the bitch knew it.’_ But that hadn't stopped him from fighting her off–keeping her at arms length–when the call to arms had come to him. She was cruelty and fatality silkily woven into a petite Japanese body, but what was worse was her propensity for... _no_. Charles didn't desire to delve into the mindset that _woman_ possessed at present.

It would do him no favors.

Rather he craned his head as far to the left as he was able in hopes of catching sight of any personnel that may have been wandering down the passages of their grandiose complex. _'Grand, right.'_

Moving himself away from the bars of his keep, Charles stood motionless and set his mind to wander. He knew it was dangerous and forbidden but..."Best for you to remain free of my thoughts, Charles." _Her_ voice was like red velvet strung up and spun around the smooth, polished exterior of a brand new handgun. Somewhere in the world, a silver barrel was missing its own unique set of striations as a residual to just how incredibly fine-tuned this _girls_ sound could be.

She was always able to sense his telepathic attempts–no matter how deeply Charles suppressed the tendrils of thought he expelled or the ambush of personal privacy.

Frustrated and shut down–and more than a little dejected–Charles' body tingled with unspent energy.

Smirking and lowering himself down to the floor, Xavier set the palms of his hands flush against the frigid ceramic, torso and legs stretching out tautly behind him in a straight and narrow. Her refusal was an anger-induced imprisonment through verbal manifestation, and so he chose to exercise and exert what he would have otherwise levied off from dipping into her consciousness.

He lowered his body down until his chest touched the white of the floor; Charles suspended himself there and breathed out before rising up once again. He felt his biceps tingle as they swelled, his blood flowing faster the harder he edged his body onward.

It felt _good._

As he thrust his body farther and willed himself to give _‘just one more pushup,’_ Charles heard distinct scratching sounds of... _‘what in the bloody...?’_

Lifting his now-sweaty body from the base of his cell, Xavier moved to stand back at the position he had routinely found himself in: forearms lying on polished steel with the rubber of his bleached-white sneakers poking against the iron bolts that lined the bottom of his cage doors.

Stunned into silence, he gazed on as _she_ etched a very intricate–and beautifully unique–artwork onto the concrete wall, directly in Charles' line of sight.

An inky-black image of a Raven, the claws and belly having been nearly completed– _how had he missed her doing this all that time? Ah yes of course, his physical exertions had been distracting _–with the onyx beak and feathers now taking definable shape.__

 _The bird was...beautiful and sad all in the same moment. But just _how_ she was creating it, had been the true wonder of it all: her silver ten-inch nails, having been extended out and sharpened to within the finest of points, were _carving_ the birds embodiment into the structure._

"A raven?" Charles tentatively asked, since conversing with his fellow mutants was not an utmost of import on his daily _I have nothing to do today_ lists. As expected, she ignored him.

At first.

But then.

"Ravens, _Telepath_ , represent disruption and are harbingers for a darkness to deep to name. I found it to be an appropriate addition to the overarching existence I'm enduring here. And with _you_ trying to sneak into my head at every available opportunity, it appears to be the perfect fit."

 _Her_ words were lifeless and flat, not like the refined texture he had heard not an hour earlier when _she_ barred him from _her_ thoughts. _‘Had it truly been an hour since I began my regimen?’_

A famous poem struck him as he watched her create and refine the raven. A dark, ominous set of literature that was worth remembering all those long years ago, when Charles had only been a young scholar himself.

Xavier first mumbled to himself then, searching his memory for _those_ words, he spokee: "yes, I remember..."

Clearing his throat of any settled particles, the former Professor of genetics–turned prisoner, softly resonated across the expanse of their widened hallway.

 

  
_"Leave my loneliness unbroken!–quit the bust above my door!  
Take thy beak from out of my heart, and take thy form from off my door!  
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"_   


"Edgar Allen Poe–have you read any of his wor-" An angered voice swiftly retorted, slicing clean the remainder of his sentence–his innocent question. Charles' mouth snapped shut as he watched Yuriko Oyama spin around and all but attempt to throw herself through the solid _adamantium_ bars that kept her secure.

"Silence! I do not wish to hear any of your English intellect through the use of American poetry. Nor do I wish to converse with you in any other form, Telepath. In reality...my _only_ true wish is to watch the river of blood rush down from your throat, as I _finally_ slice it open." She clicked two of her blade-nails together as she said this–an effort to instill fear into Charles, no doubt.

Charles huffed as a rebuttal but bit back the increasing desire to _laugh_ at her. "I'd _love_ to see you try, Yuriko." He looked onward, never breaking his gaze until she grinned and flashed her eyes at him. She knew she could do no more, and so, turned and went back to the canvas she had manifested upon her barriers.

Charles quietly studied her _very_ -feminine physical outline, as he simultaneously antagonized her with his poetic knowledge; the yellow of her own uniform wasn't as bright as he had remembered, from constant wear, similar to his. Yet it still, somehow, _fit_ her personality. The jet-black of her hair still shone as if it were liquid, despite their lack of daily hygienics. Its long length laid freely atop her shoulders, covering nearly all of her back.

She enticed him to an extent, but Charles, hating her enough to see through his attractions, kept on in his most posh, finest English accent.

 

  
_"And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting,  
still is sitting"_   


 

Xavier smoothly recited select passages of "The Raven" as her ministrations against the wall became increasing erratic. First, _he was getting to her_. Then _'good,'_ rang out as victorious through his selfish thoughts.

But.

Deciding he was fatigued from the insult and injury– _verbally_ , of course–Charles eased his blackly-clad, tightly-wound body down onto what passed as his cot and laid himself there. Breakfast would be arriving shortly. There was nothing to do now but wait.

 _'Perhaps we'll have eggs today? Over easy, if I'm lucky?'_


	2. Ah, distinctly I remember it the was bleak in December;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is woken up, and not in that pleasant way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy dialogue in this one. Introducing a familiar name + a new, original character and hints of other [very important!] names that will be appearing soon! Thanks for the feedback so far!

  
  
**Part I:**   
  


  


  
_A Murder of Ravens_   


Chapter 2: _Ah, distinctly I remember it was the bleak in December;_

  


____________________________________

 

A piercing scream. A blinding flash then; wickedly, _it_ severed right through, drawing out a white-hot disabling pain–striking, igniting around and around inside of his skull–one loop, then two. Then what felt like _twenty-two_.

Charles shot bolt-upright and nearly choked on saliva that had lain stagnate in his throat from sleep. His shaking hands palmed against the temples on both sides of his head, an effort he knew would prove in vain; the spiny stings of mental aches this jarring were too strong at current–he knew he had to wait it out.

 _'Bloody hell..._ ' Charles whispered–whimpered?–beneath the echoes of his hyperventilating gasps.

And then.

 _There it was._ The reason. The _high_ sounds that had jarred him back into the waking world...were not actual sounds at all. Confusion began to set in almost immediately. It was all too early–even for a man who each day awoke with dawn, but Charles began to calculate the- _'what exactly_ is _that?_ '

An ashen glow was just _right there_ and almost instantly, in his mind, Charles connected its appearance to that of an armed warning bell; the reflection of an unknown was poised _just so_ outside of his prison bars–unmoving, but visible and un _doubtedly_ out of place. Even the glimmering cubed floor held no candle to this oddity; Janitor Scott's best efforts having been ousted by an object projecting _something_ Charles couldn't yet see. A projection that had burned into his mind and roused him unexpectedly–a truth the telepath was none to pleased when considering.

 _Or_ Charles guessed, he could be wrong. But it didn't _feel_ as though he were incorrect on this one.

As it stood– _it_ was there. And something _had_ woken him. The coincidences were too...Charles didn't believe in such things. Whatever that reflection was–that shade or projection–was meant to rouse him. Unceremoniously at best.

 _But_.

A projection of... _what_ –another's mental assault, perhaps manifested? _No_. His logic failed to properly surmise this strange new light–visitor. That and Charles hadn't known of any other telepaths to have been remanded in this facility. Not that he was made purposely aware of their–the prison's–manifest, but a man of Xavier's talents and curiosity's surely would have sniffed a likeminded fool out of the crowd.

Be that as it may, the fires of his life-long thirst for information burned anew.

 _InvestigateInvestigate_ rang ransom in his mind now, luring Charles out of his slumber and warmth and into the cold world of the night. The blackest of nights, especially in hell.

Swinging two legs over the side of his cot, Xavier instantly felt the ice-like steel of the bed frame and hissed out loud. He would _never_ get used to that. Not ever. And really, no one person should ever _have_ to. Winter seemed a permanent resident when it came to convicted–but _not really_ –mutants kept under lock and key.

Charles barked out a cough and rubbed at his sleep-laden eyes.

Looking down then at his socked feet, the disturbed telepath watched his toes wiggle and listened as they cracked; the soft _pop-pop_ of his bones, having gone too many a minute without movement, always soothed him. It was a physical reminder of how certain simplicities _never_ changed. Even when all else had been disfigured or striped bare. _Well_. In effect.

Then he recalled the spilt-seconds of agony that tore through his mind only a few minutes ago. _The reflection_.

His mental stream of consciousness thrust its energy towards the strange illumination that still remained–within an arms-length reach of his bars. But Charles realized something then: his deduction and logic spoke of no urgency. Xavier wasn't actually _going_ anywhere. Of that much he was in the know. So the need for force or irrational behaviors would prove foolish, if not also juvenile.

Still.

Standing, he felt the worn cotton of his ebony shirt fall slack against his chilled skin; the facility had a tendency to keep the temperature fit for a morgue when darkness fell, but his adaptations had included this nuisance as best he could. Charles loathed it at the beginning of his remittance as he loathed it now.

Still.

His feet dropped down onto the ceramic tile and at such a unexpected turn of events, another strong intake of air forced its way into Charles' tired lungs. The floor felt like the arctic in all of its warmest properties–that is to say, _none_ –but Charles thanked his lucky twinklers for the provisions of clean, _thick_ socks. At least he had that much to call his own.

How nice of them to supply such adequate articles of clothing.

Moving his body close to the bars of his cells electronic entrance, a thought occurred to Charles that– _'yes, perhaps you should, old chap'_ –he would attempt an extraction of a recent telepathic tendril. One that may have belonged to _someone_ who was nothing more than a phantom now. _Perhaps_ , they might have recently skulked past this area. Stoked the embers of his slumbering mind.

An extraction that would, for all intents and purposes, serve in discovering any supplemental information that could prove worthy in this particular turn of nightly events.

 _'Yes, yes Charles. Use what you-but if they find out-no, no just-no I can't simply-'_

But he could. And so _he did_.

Reaching out–as though his telepathy was transformed into brilliant colors of dancing, shooting stars–blue and black and red and yellow and orange stars that streaked along the borders of the deadened blackness of the expansive universe; Charles concentrated. He made to focus–on the gathering and cataloging of information that _might_ have moved passed him in the stillness of the night. Charles felt let his eyes fall shut, and the familiar awareness of- _'oh now, come off of it, what exactly **was** that?'_

Flashes of ivory, yellowed with ignorance but fatally sharp. Two hands, large enough to crush even the strongest of skulls and yet, swelling ripe with surging blood-red waves of anger. Arms thicker and larger and more powerful than any others Charles had come to realize were _there_ , tightly squeezed between metal. Steel?- _no_ -adamantium rods that were dug deep, so deep, into the earth that was hidden beneath a newly-built foundation. _'What...in the fuc-?'_ Charles couldn't decipher it at first...but then _he did_.

" _Oh_ no."

A shrill, indignant voice caught on the back side of his concrete wall, its echo bouncing disturbingly efficient from the opposite end of the large room. "Oh _yes_ , Xavier."

 _Her_ voice. "What will you have done now, Yuriko?" Charles kept his own sentence short enough to sound lazed over with disinterest, but his mind was whirling. _His mind_. Stretching his consciousness outward once more, he felt a return of fear _hatredhatredanger_ burn into him. But it wasn't hers to claim.

Charles' blue orbs had remained shut during his brief exchanged of words with the Lady of Death–a pet name he couldn't quite take back–but he knew–no, Charles _felt_ –another presence much more nearer to him.

It was..."Step forward _Professor_. I do so dare for you to greet me..." The man with the xanthic eyes–crazed with an amber fire burning bright, so fatefully bright, stood there, a canine smile greeting Charles.

"Evening." Charles kept his tone flat, cold. He wouldn't _dare_ give this man an inch to occupy. "I _feel_ in here that you _saw_ me, Charles _**F**_. Xavier."

Charles listened as his name exaggerated over the tall man's languid mouth–stared at the bright crimson of this other's facility attire. "No, if it's all the same, I'll just be staying right about...ah, yes, _here_." Equally abhorrent, Charles felt it to be his best and _only_ tactic, thus using it as his best movement in a verbal disagreement.

As if he had ever had anything _**but**_ disagreements with this...this abominable _creature_.

"You understand, don't you? If I've felt you musing around in _here_ , then surely _they_ will have tomorrow. So rather than me–oh what is that expression again?– _roll_ over on you, how about you come closer and we get this, well, _show_ on the road?" A seething, drooling hiss emanated from the blond-haired animal of a man–those wide eyes alight with a passion for pain. A hunger for it, even.

Charles shifted his stance and made sight contact with the woman across from his own, confirming that Yuriko remained resolutely locked away. "No, I'd rather take my chances with personnel than have a chat with you." Indignant and patient were two words to aptly describe Charles in moments such as these, having long ago discovered the levels of irritability and irrationality shared amongst his cabin mates.

Best to describe him as the mature one of the bunch, and of that Charles was immovable.

But this was..."How exactly did you break out of your hole... _again_?" Charles wasn't met with a reply from the ferocious man, but rather a grunt–a series of growls. And then. Another spine-chilling sound– _her_ laugh–floated into Xavier's ears and left him feeling icier than the floor had, not moments earlier.

The Professor sighed in mock-impatience.

Charles bit hard on the ruby-red bottom of his chilled lips and pinched the bridge of his nose. Opening his mouth, he thought carefully of the words he had constructed inside and executed them as fine-tuned as possibilities would allow. "Come now, I don't _particularly_ enjoy controlling you. Best to avoid that outright, yes? ...There's a good lad now, return to your pathetic little existence just as the rest of us are concurrently thriving in."

That had done its job. In infuriating the beastly man to an entirely untrodden state, Charles couldn't help the wash of satisfaction that bubbled deep within him. If this place had taught him nothing else, having one golden Ace in a stack full of rejected Kings would give him the edge he needed to survive. At least one more night. And really, what was one more sanctioned night in hell?

"I'm gonna tear your pretty English head right off of that inept body of yours, _Cambridge_." Charles' eyes squinted lightly as his head leaned to one side, then, "don't you mean _Oxford_. Common misconception with me, I suppose."

A deep roar, another guilty growl. The rumblings of a man overflowing with wanton rage.

Charles did his best to ignore the pit forming in his stomach, and swallowed the bile that had risen there. To _handle_ the beast would be nothing really, but to face the music–facility _consequences_ –on the 'morrow, well now, that was his true test of self. _'Bugger.'_

And so he did the only thing he was _justifiably_ capable of doing. Well, for him.

Reintroducing the pliable pads of his index and middle fingers to his right temple, Charles felt the warmth of his skin just below his soft, brown hair. "I wouldn't suggest it, X," the tiger-like man spat, his wheat-colored gaze peered over an enormous shoulder towards a blackened, shadowed area of the complex.

Charles couldn't call the man's bluff this time–fear of being thrown into the hole again or _worse_ –and trepidation of being severely thrashed upon by a _thing_ with no boundaries, were crippling the telepath's decisiveness.

His options were blazingly limited. _'Weren't they always?'_

Charles squinted in the direction _the other_ had leaned towards with those demonic yellow eyes, and attempted to see the secrets that may very well have been hidden there. "A creepy dark corner? Beg pardon, but... _a creepy dark corner_ , really? I am to fear a shadow in which I am _obviously_ incapable of seeing? Am I following your logic correctly?" Xavier's voice hadn't given way to the nervous energy he now kept bubbling, but rather staved it from seeping out into his accusatory questions.

There was nothing to do but wait. Waiting, always waiting.

Charles didn't move during. Not an inch closer, nor had he backed away. His best defense was offense, but the fear of an unknown– _attack?_ –was keeping him prisoner more than anything else.

Yet–wasn't he already a prisoner, in mind and body, yes– _'no, no not mind Xavier, never your mind, you fool.'_

"No, no I don't think-"

"Well X, make your move. And then watch. You'll be thrown into that telepathic torture chamber–pardon me, _solitary confinement_ –quicker than you can eye-fuck Lady D." The animals orbs flashed a vivd amber, his teeth staving off a deep-seeded rumble that boiled underneath his meaty exterior. Charles knew he must make his decision quick. Fast.

And then it dawned on him.

The reflection. His jarring awake. The strange illumination that was-yes it _was still there_ -on the sparkling floor. Charles laughed but felt more like weeping for all his lost hope.

"A camera? Perhaps being monitored by a...dare I say it, _telepath?_ " The mind-reader's head shifted sideways, his eyes brushing past the madman's and moving into _hers_. She validated his suspicions with her silence. "A security camera? Honestly? The more interesting fact is the cloak-and-dagger shroud you've pulled over a fellow mutant telepathic. Now _that_ I would-"

Incredulity swamped Charles and immediately, it began to drag him _below_ himself, underneath his own existence–safety now becoming more of import than an impractical belief system. "But...how?" Xavier's words stumbled, mindlessly he spat them out and then watched as the larger man damn near bounced on his heels in a victorious– _childlike_ –repose.

"I suppose you've thought you've won this war?" Xavier questioned, lips pulled tightly together. The professor stood steadfast, even though everything within his frantic mind was crying for reason.

"A _security camera_. A _newly installed_ security camera. And behind it, there is one with whom...oh, how best to say this? _One_ with the ability to reign you in and keep you mentally impotent, and thus, removing all facets for your self-defense." Charles listened on as the maddened animal's words crushed his self-preservation one syllable at a time.

Xavier's teeth were seconds away from rattling.

Diversionary tactics were needed now more than any snobbish remarks. As it stood to reason, Charles lead with his true-to-life tongue.

"How did you get out of your cage tonight? I must have missed that in the delights of this conversation." His fight continued on with calm intellect. Charles couldn't lose control. _Not now_.

"The same way _that_ camera installation appeared right over there. Isn't it lovely how the facility's skylights direct the comforts of mother nature's moon onto the lens? Optics, I'll tell ya." Charles could have choked on the revulsion that man's voice wrought. Could have given up the contents to his stomach at that precise moment.

The dawning of fact versus fiction and the depths with which his life were about to sink, was becoming painfully obvious to Charles now.

A rage released.

 _" **Who**_ have you...how....no- _WHO_?" Charles' voice raised in a fit of panic, his hands balled, fingers sweating against the burning pulse that was tearing inside of him. If his blood raced any faster, Xavier wasn't entirely certain he would survive the night. Wasn't entirely sold on such the level of stress his pounding heart was wading through at present.

And then _her_ laughter came as an audible pause to his cyclonic storms.

"Yuriko, if you would find it in you, do me a favor and shut the **fuck** up." The professor, once mild, proper and distinguished, was falling apart at his very seams. His screams for silence and order were drawing nothing but impish reactions now. Higher and higher they rang out–the feral animal and the Japanese Lady, who could _and would_ slice his body thinner than sheet of milky-white paper, had she the chance–were coming together in an effort to drive him out of his own mind.

Drive him to a force he may very well _never_ recover from.

Charles knew he needed to gather himself, to bring these challenges into him and reverse their order. _'Beat these bastards at their own games.'_

 _Whispering, Charles delved upon his talents for knowing passages verbatim in an effort to shake down the double-edged sword of a situation he found himself caught within._

 __

  
_"Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door–  
This it is and nothing more."_   


 

"What...what is it you're saying now? I can't-I can't _hear_ you." The man, his basketball-sized hands and thick, long-clawed fingers wrapped around the freezing metal of Charles' prison keep. _'Good. Come closer, you filthy coward,_ ' Charles said, speaking within his mind only to himself, saving energy in conversation to say nothing more but selections from Poe's masterful tale of loss and insanity.

Perhaps it would do him well in this situation: change the order of things, sever the current status quo and regain his Ace amongst these murderers and madmen alike. Xavier would try anything, now that he had learned the truth–a _new_ sickening truth of in-house deception.

And Charles knew he didn't know _half_ of whatever he had only just surmised.

But he continued on, mumbling beneath the hallowed breaths that came from deep within his lungs. Labored and burned-out air being drawn out to _help_ him–as though he had always taken for granted his capacity to breathe or breath itself. Now it was now or never. Now was right _now_. He had his memory, he had his air. Charles had the chance to fight back with his intellect, his existence. And he would.

And he did.

 

  
_"Back into the chamber turning,  
all my soul within me burning,  
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before."_   


 

Rage. Hatred.

"Stop it, Xavier. Just... _stop it_." The man's teeth snapped shut, his head lowering to peer through the flayed maze of his bushy golden eyebrows.

Charles was surprised it had taken merely _two_ verses of poetry to incite such loathsome fury, but used it to his advantage and sprung out his mental traps.

"Tell me who, _Victor_ , whom have you that's helping you here, and I shall promptly stop. Until then..."

 

  
_"Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore–  
'Tis the wind and nothing more."_   


 

Charles felt his eyes alight with power–he was guiding the situation back, _somehow_ , with words and a stillness too calm to name. Sanity was being tested among the feeble minds of those lesser than his own, and Charles would see to it that he will have won out.

He wouldn't give up or in to the temptation to touch their minds with his own–he had come too far without using his abilities...

And so Charles carried on, his lips sure and knowing. Firm. Set. He watched as Yuriko all but climbed the span of her cage, her fingernails- _knives?_ -having fully extended long ago. She was poised and ready to kill him...as she had always appeared, but this time was infinitely different. Charles couldn't stop–wouldn't stop–and it was driving them ragged.

Such a simple thing, dark poetry, said in _just_ the right wa-

He noticed the shift in atmosphere. But it was too late for him.

Charles sensed a distant dance of static as it bore its weight down onto the fine hairs of his arms. Electricity was brining the air–charges being passed between spaces that had somehow been growing wider and wider between the three. It was at that moment Charles realized what he had– _unintentionally?_ –been doing.

"Oh... _bloody fuck_." Charles was gripped with brazen affirmation when he _really_ , finally looked at the two mutants he had been-

Victor was clasping the sides of his head–the mans nails no longer under his own volition, and Charles did nothing but stare on in a terrifying state of mesmerization. Those ten shark-like barbs burrowed themselves violently into and against the flesh of the Sabretooth's scalp, his cries resonating more like feline growls than human anguish. Because he _wasn't_ human. None of them were.

Yuriko, having long since fallen down onto her poor excuse of a mattress, had been busied with opening and reopening wounds that were quick to heal...before slicing open the skin again and again. Her pain was written plainly across the soft skin of her face; Charles watched in satisfied horror as they both writhed in pain. But.

 _'What have I done?'_

Siren-like alarms set ringing inside of his mind then–speeding words blaring past his eyes in flashing lights of yellow and red, screaming as they soared by; they were screaming so loud at him: "Charles, you've absolutely gone and done yourself in."

The telepath sighed to himself. A gulp, then two.

Charles' back fell against the bleached brick of the cells rear wall followed immediately by his chest slumping itself over. The palms of his shaken hands kept him from falling to the cold floor as they braced steady upon the tops of his kneecaps. Xavier...hadn't _noticed_. It was all happening too fast. When-why-how- _'how was I able to-but, no, without my fingers?'_

A strange breath of chilled air left Xavier's lips right after his realization. _'Strange...'_

But the shock of it all. Pure _shock. 'What had originally jarred me awake?'_ The question erupted from within his brain, his eyes scanning the circumference of his holding area for any signs of a tell. The reflection had been accounted for–a security camera's trick of light–but the shock was...cold.

Frozen. It wasn't–couldn't have been the camera. Charles knew it was simply not plausible for a _thing_ to-"Get up Victor." Charles' voice was dry, harsh with warred emotions of prior run-ins with this monster.

He repeated the order when the animal hadn't yet risen. "I _said_ , get **up** Victor."

The bigger mans body was, at present, haunched down on one knee, the tips of his claws dripping warm beads of blood–it appeared as though Creed's fingers were raining scarlet–an image that set in Charles' mind and kept him resolute to his fixed point. He wouldn't dare make a move now. Not while the beast began a steady ascent back to a standing position.

 _Before_ Charles had unwittingly attacked him.

"How did you...what are you using to tap into my mind? And _who is helping you?_ " The final part of that question was spoken through gritted, angered teeth. Charles felt betrayed in a place where he had held no allies, but it didn't justify the blatant breach of ethics or _humanity_. No, what they-whoever _they_ may be-were doing wasn't right on an infinite number of levels. And Charles hadn't even known precisely _what the hell_ was happening at current.

Still.

The telepath sauntered closer to the metallic bars, their silver paint catching upon the dimmed fluorescence of the facilities overhead lighting. _'Lighting best used in frigid morgue.'_ Or so Charles had always believed.

His too-blue eyes were focused on the glimmering adamantium–why they had given _him_ such preventative structural strength remained unclear early on, but the attacks of those stronger–in that _brute_ sense–than him had proven reason enough. Tonight had proven to Charles that the levels of his gratitude over having indestructible materials acting as a buffer between a beast and his very life, were indeed, very much overflowing.

"Victor. _Who_ is helping you? _How_ did you get into my head and how were you able to... _wake_ me in the manner with which you had?" Answers, Charles needed answers and he needed them ten minutes ago.

The professor knew the animal-man-beast couldn't possibly have breached through his telepathic barriers–defenses he had constructed as a young boy that held true throughout his life–and thus deduced the raving murderer had help. But the _who_ was...maddening.

Victor looked through the bars with storming rage, that mouth busy licking clean the last droplets of his own blood. Lucky for Charles he was bound and held captive with two mutants who had the amazing abilities to regenerate and heal, even in the worst cases. _'Lucky for me.'_

Knowing he had already broken the cardinal rule that was created just for him upon his arrival to this nightmarish hell known as "Mutant Prison," Charles guessed that one last-ditch effort for truth couldn't do any worse. Then he remembered the tortures he had inadvertently inflicted upon his suite mates and cringed in on himself. He had changed a remarkable amount, but _purposely_ hurting others wasn't an endearment Charles put any stock in. It simply _wasn't_ who he had been, nor would he ever.

But _goddammit_.

Charles _needed_ to know. Who and how and why this was all happening now.

So the telepath reached out–smoothed out the rough exteriors of their unleveled playing fields and it was then Charles began a mental stroll into Victor's mind. He _had_ used his fingers this time, but wasn't entirely convinced he would need to keep up the tradition for much longer. Not after the stronghold he had manifested earlier _without_ the tips and temples of his flesh meeting. Charles merely assumed.

Nonetheless.

A man's face appeared there, blurred as though water had been tossed upon a mirrors mercury-like surface, the reflective image skewed and pulled. But it was a man: brunette and clean-shaven but wiry and visibly bone-thin–as though he had been a left over from the second World War. An _untreated_ leftover. Then again. Perhaps he was simply a man who hadn't over indulged in the best of times, but suffered greatly through the worst of times.

 _Hadn't they all_.

That was neither here nor there, or best left to be mulled over at a later time. What Charles did choose to focus on was the thin man's smile. _There, yes_. A freakish glint of sadism and dysfunction had lain atop his coffee-stained teeth. His laugh lines were _too_ refined, too visible, like a man who had enjoyed luring the ideas of blood and fury into his reality. The mans eyes appeared dark– _too_ dark–but most definitely alive and passion-fueled. Passionate with _what_ , Charles couldn't guess the numbers.

A flash of arctic ice–brilliant, nearly translucent white–surged behind the shoulders of this man. Hands, Charles thought he had seen two feminine hands resting there. But...no face. Nothing but the emotions of what one might feel if he were to stand at magnetic north. So there were multiple perpetrators.

And then a name passed over Victor's frontal lobe right after the ice-image dissipated, and Charles was nearly sick with incredulity.

"Peter...Ta... _Tate_?" The telepath stuttered the name out, his red lips tasting a filth too muddied to accurately describe. "Pete Tate? _The_ facility's Peter Tate?" His stream of thoughts went on and on, his eyes unable to focus and his consciousness too scattered to pry himself out from underneath the horrid truth of it all.

Victor, in all of his errors and murderous rages, had never been as silent as he was just now. Charles checked. _'No, I haven't a grip on your mind any longer, so why are you-"_ Cut off, the overhead lights burned brighter suddenly, and Xavier's eyes finally broke away from the amber colors of the Sabretooth's.

Someone was coming. Or perhaps it was some _thing_.

Charles felt the tiny spikes of hair rise on the back of his neck–this, _this_ wasn't good. Whatever it was. _Who_ ever it was.

"Good evening, Xavier." A tiresome cackle pierced the still air and Charles' breath went frigid as it slid past his lips. The hallway light was blinding then, but he felt as though the temperature had dropped significantly on account of the swallowing darkness that edged just behind his shoulders. "Peter?" The telepath's voice sounded choked–afraid now–and Charles could have kicked himself for such the display of worrisome fear.

"I trust now you've grasped _parts_ of the severity of your situation?" Tate seemed agitated, his bony shoulders appearing more pointed than Charles had last remembered.

"Situation? Oh you're directing that towards an out-of-cell prisoner just mucking about–patronizing the fellow regulars?" Charles couldn't help himself. Xavier's eyes damn near burned with blue flames as he peered on at the neural inhibitor Peter was–as he always appeared in–wearing. "I fail to take light in this charade you're busy dancing around, Professor."

 _'Shit._ '

But.

Charles _didn't_ know anything. Not really anyway, and he had the sneaking suspicion he was about to find out. "Pardon my crass nature, Peter. Its being constantly subjected to an insensitive English DNA trait I simply cannot deny. Genetics, as you know-" Charles cut himself off and watched in horror as the man placed a calm hand on Victor's left shoulder. "Please, Victor, return to your housing. I will secure the lock as soon as I have finished with... _this one._ "

Charles's cheeks felt as though they were vacuumed inside of his head. As though he were just propelled through the vastness emptiness of airless space. Like that infinite playground, no one here would hear Charles scream. For help, for life.

The pair of men–Charles and Peter–waited silently as Victor growled his way down the pathway, through the bottleneck structure and into his own cell, the clank of his steel doors closing, telling of his arrival.

"There, that's better. He's quite the angered child, isn't he?" Peter scratched the thin, graying hair of his eyebrow with one spiny finger, the nail dirtied and jagged, and let roll his brown eyes in an effort to refocus. Lids open, lids shut. Charles was at a loss for words.

"So, I assume you've got a barrage of questions just bursting at your seams? Undoubtedly you're interested in discovering just _why_ I let Victor slip free of his cage, or perhaps, why that new security camera has been installed with a birds-eye view of _your_ keep. Or wait, perhaps...the golden egg, yes? _How_ was it _I_ was able to rouse you from your sleep with a mental dial? ...Perhaps it was it even me? Yes, yes these are all very fascinating indeed, but I think we would do best to discuss your evening antics–or shall I say the _telepathic torment_ you projected onto Yuriko and Victor?"

At the sound of her name having been uttered, a crazed-whooping sound came from the opposite end of the large rooms expanse. Peter sighed and rolled his deadpanning eyes upwards in an exasperated repose. "Yuriko, you'd do best to remain exempt from the conversation I'm currently sharing in with Charles. Unless of course, you would like to belay Charles' punishment with the institution of your own?"

Peter's gaze never broke away from the tops of Charles' cell, as though he were reprimanding an insolent child.

Yuriko said nothing more.

"I honestly do _not_ know how you survive with these _animals_ surrounding your every move. If they're not misunderstanding their place in the world, they're hanging from their respective bars as though they were mere jungle beasts and nothing more. Not to imply that I believe _your_ kind to be of any great measure, I simply fail to understand the reasoning behind _their_ –Yuriko and Victor–simple-minded antics." A pause.

Then.

"However, _you_ , you are something different entirely, Xavier. You could, if given the chance- _Peter slowly tapped the solid steel of his mind-blocking device then_ -rule the entire world and all the feeble minded weaklings that are birthed within it. Of course, _I know_ that you know this. I also know that you're **not** here because you're a savage. Hell, you and I have discussed at length why you've been sent here, and shall I be brazen for a moment? I doubt you're an innocent but _know_ you're not a murderer _or_ a lunatic." Peter stopped to clear his throat. Charles did nothing, save for stand there, arms too close to the bars, legs too frozen to move.

The telepath _had_ heard something interesting however, in Peter's long-winded speech. Charles tucked that minuscule bit of imperative information away for later review.

Back in the present again, Charles sensed the desires to verbally defend himself tickling in the back of his throat; his lips parting in a token of released panic, Xavier knew that to speak up in his favor would be an incredibly large mistake. At least in his current predicament.

"I _did **not**_ kill that poor girl, goddammit! How many _bleeding_ times must I-" Peter held up one hand and shook his unusually long index finger. Clearly, Tate hadn't cared for Xavier's history nor the reasoning for his imprisonment.

"As I was saying, all of that being noted, what you did tonight has shown _us_ that you're evolving, as I had originally been suspecting. The camera-" Peter motioned behind him with another two skeleton-like fingers, shoulder turning but eyes never leaving Charles' blue orbs-"was placed there because, despite all of your troubling, self-depreciating fears, Xavier, you're stronger than you've ever been."

Peter tapped the side of his metallic headband again in an effect to share his conversational direction. "And I know, Xavier, because like you, I have a special talent for drawing out silent truths. Only, I am _not_ a mutant, but rather the messenger of one. One with whom you've just recently been introduced too, I might add."

Peter's eyebrows lifted in a similar manner to that of a poker player's best tell. He had laid his cards out, only hadn't flipped their faces over for the crowd to view.

But Charles had felt the presence of _two_ mutants while strolling about in Creed's mind. And now Tate was revealing only _one_. Charles knew not all was what it seemed. Another layer of information to be saved, stored and sorted through once he was done with this awkward schoolyard bullying.

As it stood, Charles moved closer to the steel bars, head wilting off to one side, unsure, unclear but unafraid now. "I...I don't quite understand you Peter. There is another mutant telepath in this compound? He, _or she_ , is here? Was _that_ the awareness that lit me awake earlier? And what did Victor have to do with this little parade you've gone and thrown for me?" Xavier played along like an expert now, his uncanny abilities to read people _and_ read between the lines, would win out. He knew it.

One word rang through Xavier's head amidst it all though: _traptraptraptrap_. It had been a dawning of truths, yes, but _why_ now? Why the sudden changes?

Peter had gathered as much from the appearance of the telepath standing just out of arm's reach.

"Fascinating. You don't yet know the facts–not even a _quarter_ of them–and still, you somehow _suspect_ this won't be ending well for you. Absolutely fascinating." Peter looked around and behind Xavier then, taking in the Englishman's worn, ashen-attire and the full, sad picture of his living arrangements.

At least it was clean.

"Answers, unfortunately, won't be had this evening, Xavier, as you know I cannot reveal _all_ of my hand this early in the game. Just know that we'll be watching you from now on. And it won't just be us lowly humans, either. At least, _not anymore_." Peter clicked the heel of his boot down hard atop a ceramic square, the audible "click-click" filling the dead, cold air of the facility's hallway.

Charles nearly leapt towards the bars as he saw Peter begin his best movements in exiting–a vain effort to stop the slimy excuse of a man.

"Wait! You... _you have a_ mutant _working for you?_ " Charles' grasping fingers _just_ missed the hem of Tate's polo shirt–colored white with a black three-lettered emblem stitched over top of his left breast. Charles hadn't ever forgotten whom he was at the mercy of, but now, _now_ things had changed.

Significantly so.

Tate shifted his stance back and smiled. _'There goes those maniacal teeth again.'_ "Charles, be mindful to ready yourself for another week spent in the hole. Two, should you speak again. I haven't forgotten to make justice for what you've done here tonight–to them–whether it was on account of force or necessity."

Charles couldn't believe it. Anger swelled through him like a raging forest fire–flashes of red and black clouding his composure.

 _"You **set me up!**_ How-why... _you_ **purposely allowed** Victor out of his bloody cage, and in defending _myself, I'm_ to be punished?!" The rampage came quick, but died as a broken filament in an old 60-watter might have, just after it shone its last light.

"Two it is then, Xavier. I shall send personnel to collect you shortly. Ready yourself."

Charles' shoulders slumped in resignation. His eyes looked out upon the man as he eased himself away, and Charles, _well_ , he could see darkness there, and nothing more.

"Oh and _Charles?_ " Peter had stopped at the helm of the entrance, one hand placed over the lighting switch, its metallic plate glittering in reflection of the facility's lighting.

The telepath's head snapped up at the sound of his _first_ name being implemented by a person of staff.

"Yes?" he tentatively asked, unsure as to whether or not he wished to hear anything more from this beguiling man. And then Peter spoke softly, calmly, familiar words Charles knew all too well.

 

  
_"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!  
I shrieked, upstarting–"_   


 

Charles nearly choked at Tate's recitation of Poe. But he couldn't retain hatred for the man over that, _no_. Charles found hate for him as a result of the deceptive trail of breadcrumbs that had been left at his feet, collected then and now regurgitated with a sad depiction of his existence.

For the first time in his entire life, Charles Xavier had been bested at his own intellectual gaming.

But what was worse, the arrogant mind-reading Professor, was scared.


	3. Thrilled me–filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lt. Erik Lehnsherr, of the New York State Police Department, Homicide Division is handed over the case file of the century.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters going forward get much longer, with lots of details strewn throughout. Charles will be back in the next chapter–you have my promise–but it was time to intro a certain metal-bender.
> 
> Also, in this story, there's DNA technology in 1961. I can make that happen...because I said so? :) So when reading of databases and specimen sample tech, just nod and smile. It's a fanfiction after all, so liberties were taken!

**Part I:**   
_A Murder of Ravens_

Chapter 3: _Thrilled me–filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;_

  


________________________________________

 

" _God_ dammit Clipper! I needed that intel from the riverside warehouse homicides _two_ **fucking** hours ago! Stop sitting around with your thumb up your ass, get in here and brief me...or Logan is gonna get lead on the next out." A tall man–hair the color of brown and blonde married together in what could be the perfect blend–wore the face of an feral animal as it barked at the now-silent police detective.

Ineptitude drove this German into a frenzy of kinetic motion–a storm, a hurricane that built upon itself in times of great incredulity and anger.

Stretched veins were visible from the broad forehead of this brute gentleman, a five-fingers wide pale surface made seeable by his short-length bangs; his neck though, _well_ , it was two shades of scarlet now, and the lightness of his green eyes were dulled by the disappointment he was currently reveling in.

One hand clasped the worn wooden sides of the corner office's doorway, his body leaning outwards _just so_ that this man in charge was in clear view of the ill-performing man in question–that is, Clipper Learman. Detective of the year.

...Not.

Lt. Lehnsherr of Westchester, New York State's homicide division–with nearly ninety-three percent of all pending, open and unsolved homicides in the state on account of the departments high turn-around rate–was _livid_.

The six foot immigrant was nothing if not methodically severe–a strong-jawed man who was never off the job. This meant every occupied second of his days were spent tracking down the next fucker who had thought he bested the law and thus, Lt. Erik Lehnsherr was all business, all the time. He didn't know how to play games and he didn't make a habit of having friends. Lehnsherr wasn't in his position of authority because he loved people, _no_ , Lehnsherr was there because he loved _catching_ the bastards that hated people more than he ever would. And _he_ would know humanity's propensity for unjustified hatred more than most.

_

Having survived the concentration camps, and more importantly, _escaped_ the concentration camps in 1944, Erik Lehnsherr left Europe behind him and made his home in the United States–at the impressionable age of fourteen.

It wasn't an entirely difficult transition, seeing as most prison escapees had fled to Lady Liberty's open arms, but Erik had, truthfully, never come to miss his native homeland. That is– _Germany_ , where his family, and he, had lived eleven years together before the Third Reich had quite literally, come for _them_. And that Nazi bastard Hitler broke apart his home then–shattered it, like millions of glittering fragments from a destroyed pane of glass.

The _stars_ , though.Those yellow stars of David and the cocoon-esque walls of those over populated ghettos, even today–nearly twenty years gone, had never faded from his memory. _But_.

He laid those demons to rest with the ending of the war. Or least tried his damnedest to do such a formidable thing. Admittedly though, he _was_ a changed man from the time spent being kept half alive, half dead for the better part of three years. _But_ Erik had made a deal with himself in the early mornings hours on that special day in 1944: _'Wenn Sie es schaffen, Erik, nie nie wieder sehen.'_

Thus, it- _all of it_ -was to be a part of his dark, slavered past–memories best left put to bed with all those who hadn't made it out. Whom hadn't been as lucky as he. Whom hadn't the _gifts_ Erik was born with.

Yes, lucky him.

 _Luck_ –he never had come to rely on it, nor believe in it as an actual thing. And yet, he _was_ a survivor. For some reason, unknown or unreasoned, Lehnsherr was _meant_ to escape the steely grips of hell on earth. To overcome.

It was an instinctual nature from that moment on, to fight–to defend ones freedom...by running away from dying tyranny and murderous oppression. He hadn't felt a moment's worth of guilt or regret, _no_ , rather Erik felt sorry for the ones made to suffer the worst. Lehnsherr's stay hadn't been _too_ different from theirs–the gassed, the starved, the tired, the poor–but he was kept alive, working, because he was strong, quiet.

In his mind, Erik wouldn't dare name the ghosts of any camp weak or lesser than he–he couldn't live with himself had he believed in such atrocities, what with his family having fallen all around him–but the proof. Erik was living proof that something had _happened_ for him there. A series of events–chances taken, perhaps?–that allowed Erik the opportunities to life and liberty.

Erik doesn't forget nowadays–how might one ever forget–but simply does the job here and now for reasons based almost entirely off of the cornerstones of his time spent in such blackness.

It was his drive to make the most of himself, almost immediately upon becoming a United State citizen, and Erik never questioned the direction he had taken since. It would be easy to call his joining the ranks of New York's Finest retribution–work spent saving others from the madness that swells within the darkest few–but Erik knows its why he is so goddamn good at what he does.

Being Westchester Police Departments most decorated Lieutenant and one of the youngest to hold a corner office attests to this theory–the one that dates back to the camps. So getting his job done–both right _and_ on time–was of utmost to this top notch man in charge.

Of course, this made Clipper Learman just another detective on Erik's fast-growing ' _why the fuck did I hire you?'_ lists. But. Learman had helped solve the last two cold cases that had been pushed through onto Lehnsherr's oak desk. So firing the cocky, over-confident man wasn't an educated move–regardless of how much Lehnsherr had actually _longed_ to do such in-house cleaning.

And so, the prick stayed.

"Aye aye captain!" Lehnsherr heard whispered, and for the briefest moment, Erik thought to address it by stapling the mans _yellow_ tie to his faded, coffee-drizzled work shirt. _From inside of his office._ Because really, _who_ wears a mustard-yellow tie?

That endearing idea died off quickly, as hurting his best detectives wouldn't bode well in meetings with his Captain and the higher _higher_ ups, but still, Erik's fingers buzzed with the metal possibilities.

After all, moving metal _had_ saved his life on more than just one occasion. _Oh yes_ , that was the secret of the century as far as Erik was concerned, and he would–if time permitted for it–take it to his grave.

Mutant. _Metal-manipulating_ mutant. In a serious position of authoritarian power.

Erik never let on to his true genetic identity and having not been required any testing–outside of the norm–upon his citizenship in 1952, nothing had ever been suspected of the lean German- _turned_ -American. They simply believed him to be "just like them," that is to say, human, or _not a freak_. But obviously Erik knew better, and so he shrouded his gifts behind necessity and severity, drawing forth his magnetism in times of great need.

Or whenever he was at home, in his apartment. With his _shapeshifting mutant_ girlfriend. There, he would float event he simplest of objects into his hands for the sheer convenience of it. Or the pleasure it brought him. Erik hadn't ever been ashamed of his talents with metal or its fluidity and the beauty with which he had been gifted, ensconced into his unique DNA. He discovered early on how useful the manipulation of metallics would prove to be, and having been dealt so much hurt–with so little provisions for a child that young–Erik had honed his ability rather quickly.

Magnetism was second-nature; as uniform as breathing air, but with an electricity that was unparalleled. It was as if it were a drug–intoxication and luminescence manifested as one. It was _his_ control that drove the iron, the steel or–what was that "new," indestructible alloy? Ah yes,– _adamantium_ , that filled him and drove him towards an edge with endless equations.

Naturally, as one would expect, this sort of power-lust happened behind closed and _locked_ doors. Doors to an apartment bought and paid for in full. Well, for the next three years at least. Erik had no plans to leave his job _or_ his girlfriend, having run enough for three lifetimes. No, his powers were his to enjoy in the safety of that shared living space–his ivy-colored eyes and his metal belonging to her and _her_ alone.

At this home–whenever he actually _went_ home, as Erik worked nearly non-stop during the week–he often enjoyed the normalities of middle class living and the nightly sip or two of red wine. _White_ if she had decided to join him. Which, considering her own line of employment–a detective in his daily line-up at roll call–was almost near to never.

Weekends were their time to reconnect as lovers and friends–she being his _only_ friend–but as with most facets of Erik's life, his work was ninety-percent of it.

That's not to suggest she was second best–hardly the case. Only that five out of seven days, she recognized the boss in her man more than the lover taken between their cotton-fabric sheets. _But_ it was okay. For her and for him. It worked. It was a seamless relationship with zero secrets, and one they both craved as longingly as they had their powers in that safety net known as home.

Her name, _oh her name_ , though. It was an image that drove the arrow directly through his love-sick heart–something Erik was _not_ , not ever. A bird–black and wondrous, strong and dark. She was all of those things but _so much more_. To him, at least.

He hadn't ever truly known from whence she had come, but Erik's suspicions were never more than that: he would _never_ dig into her past because it wasn't something of import. Simple as that. Their trust–their openness was complete, whether he had the details or whether he hadn't thought deeper to ask the right questions, Erik wasn't lacking in knowledge of her. He had learned all that he _needed_ to–the rest was a bonus.

She told him everything he had posed to her, and that form of willingness was more foreign, but more _real_ , than Germany's heartache had ever been for him. It was about the time and place, and he was here and she was here in this exact moment.

They were unique and of their own caliber and it was as easy as the pulling of the oceans tides by the moon.

She was enough, more than really. And Erik was satiated simply by having _her_ to call his home.

Raven, Raven Darkholme was a mysterious creature, but true and wide open. She was a cerulean guide beside the pale of moonlight and, his most trusted and valued up-and-coming detective. Raven was both sides of his polished Reichsmark–equal in both the darkness of the failing light, and the brightness brought on by the sun. Every morning he saw fit to remind himself just how _lucky_ he was.

 _Luck_ , right.

But love and friends and homes and wine weren't a part of his Monday-thru-Friday regimen. _No, sir_ , they were not.

Erik had pulled Raven off the beat after only twelve months on the job; she was decorated in her first two on the street, having rescued two men in her squad single handedly out of a shoot-out that was headed all the worse for wear. And as gun-blazing antics weren't exactly the norm for Westchester, New York, her heroics hadn't gone unnoticed.

She became the first woman to breach the departments typical two-year wait on an application to become a detective–at his referendum and his alone.

This happened, of course, all _before_ they had begun dating–a point of self-pride for Raven and a level of impeccable decision making on Erik's part.

But today. Today was Tuesday, ten thirty-two in the morning and colder than the night before.

Erik looked over wantonly at his coffee cup and then back out towards his hardworking men...and woman. He sighed in annoyance but swiped his "You're #1!" mug from off the dusty corner of his side desk and made way towards the brewing pot by Stryker's door.

 _Stryker's door_ had the coffee maker beside it, thus meaning Erik did not have one of his own. A point of aggravation that had dulled with time, until of course, Erik had to refill. Like today. Like _everyday_.

"Sir." The blonde-turned-brunette detective, was just leaving after pouring herself a fresh one; as Raven's eyes connected with Erik's upon her one-word official, her eyes flashed an array of green to parlay his frustrations. _Inside joke_. He waggled his eyebrows in response but just as quickly, he let the moment die. Work. No time for play.

"Darkholme," Erik muttered, turning his back towards her just in time to catch Learman making towards the exit of his now-unoccupied office.

A long, drawn out sigh slipped past Erik's lips at the sight of his being dodged by a subordinate. Nothing new, _but_.

"Learman, just...just _stay_ in there for a minute." Erik's words dripped with eye-rolling disdain. That's just the sort of response Learman was able to draw out from an otherwise composed Lehnsherr, but today seemed... _different_.

Erik was–for some unknown reason–allowing his mind to sweat the small: inconsistent mishaps that were a constant around this office were _getting_ to him this morning. A sense of something large-scale felt waiting in the wings, and this didn't bode well for the routine work shift he was well accustomed to. Erik felt _off_ of his game for the very first time, but what was worse, not knowing _why_ he was feeling said way was beginning to distract him.

Strangling the insecure thoughts, Erik spun on his heel and walked purposefully back into his personal work space. His home away from that place he lives in on the weekends. Shutting the solid wood door behind him, the Lt. returned his steaming mug to the side table and sat as though he let his body drop down onto the cooled leather of his chair.

"So." Erik's voice was accusatory and flat. "You thought you would, _what_ exactly? Come in here, drop off your completed homework and return back to your desk like a good little boy?" The skin above Erik's green orbs was white from being his eyebrows pulling upwards so long. His questions required answers.

Answers he didn't–and wouldn't–wait on much longer.

"Clip, you know how it goes here. Someone dies, we solve it, we fill out the fuckload of forms, you turn it into your good ol' boss–that would be me–and then bam! You go home knowing you did exactly what the fuck you're being paid to do. _So_ , I fail to see why it took you two and half _whole_ hours to not only hand it in, but also why you're meandering behind my back like the asshole we all know you are?" Erik's speech ended with him sipping on his watery cup of caffeine. Eyes deadpanning Learman.

The coffee wasn't even that hot. _'Goddammit,'_ Erik huffed.

Clipper sat there, hands and fingers laid out atop his pressed trousers. His appearance was in stark contrast to the cocky bastard Erik had come to know. Even as early as this morning. _'Shit, something really was going on. Fuck.'_ "Sir...I...I know what this looks like...I. Okay. I'm just gonna-alright. Well, the paperwork for the riverside murders is on top- _yes, right there_ -but I've also...um, _well_. I included some research I've been conducting for a, well, for a while now–in those bottom two folders. O-on my own. At ugh...my house, I mean. ...Sir."

Erik didn't say anything in response to the stammering mans near-frantic statement. He was, surprisingly, at a loss for words.

So he said nothing but shifted the files around until the pervious bottom two, were now laying unopened on top. Clipper remained silent but was leaning forward now, signs of would-be interruptions and fact-sharing desires laying obvious on his face. It was just one more thing to make Erik's skin crawl about this cop, but recognizing something substantial here in the files, Lehnsherr knew he needed time– _lots_ of it, to _fully_ process the bulk of this raw material.

 _So_.

Erik swallowed a growing thump and licked the tip of his right hands thumb. Salt and hint of stale coffee were now washing over the sensitive tastebuds of his mouth, detecting trace contact he had undoubtedly touched throughout the morning. He used that same wetted thumb to page through the photographs, victim identities and witness accounts before his periphery finally reached its Learman-limit.

Erik broke studying of the dossiers suddenly, and then-"Clip...go grab yourself an early lunch. Take Logan and McCoy and pick me up one of those croissant things?" Erik put in his request as a ruse–one Learman was all too aware of–but never broke eye contact with the contents of the folders now laying open in plain view.

But Clipper hadn't moved.

Green-eyes rolling upwards, Erik all but threw the metallic blinds that hung horizontal on his windows over top of the man. The stubbornness was immeasurable one moment, then gone the next. Apparently, it had just returned.

"Sir? I...I think we've...New York, I mean–I think we have a _mutant_ serial killer on the loose." Clipper's wavering statement came as nothing short of an internal shock for Erik. He hadn't suspected-but _how_ did Learman make connections for something so armed and dangerous? So potentially enormous. And without any suspicion from himself?

"And what makes _you_ so certain?" Erik asked the question sounding more like an offended mutant rather than the tough Lieutenant reprimanding his stammering detective. _'Fuck._ ' Learman hadn't picked up on the dual tones, thankfully. "Well, I...I went ahead and had some of these victims–the ones in those files– _tested_ with that new blood-specimen indicator tech–ya know the one Quantico just released to all departments across the country? I just had a–a hunch. And...It...two of the females and one male both returned a positive on having a genetic mutation."

Clipper hushed after running off the smoking gun of his crime wave find to Lehnsherr. Erik wasn't outwardly selling that he was unabashedly convinced–although in reality, he _was_ sold on the idea–but kept his chin down and his eyes up. "And you think, because of these two females and one male–these dead _mutants_ –that their genetic connection is the link to a serial killer? Is that what I am to understand, Learman?"

Erik never let his guard down or his fear show. It was number one in an ever-expanding rule book of his. If he didn't live by it, he would die by it, should it ever be willfully neglected. Of that, the metal-bending Lieutenant was certain.

Clipper saw his boss and nothing more. The same man who drilled them day in and day out, but turned over cases as if he were reading–or literally _inside _–the _minds_ of those with whom committed such acts. It was strange how efficient this former German resident was, artfully efficient even, but Learman never doubted the man. _Would_ never doubt him. __

No matter the case or doubtful repose the detective was running into.

That being said, Clip knew his place, and so, tried to speak with probable cause versus conviction.

"Yes, yes I believe that to be the case, Sir. It's...it's too blatant, don't you think? There are about six dead that I've come across so far, and three have tested positive for this mutated gene. The other three–two males and one more female–haven't come back from the lab yet. I should know–or _we_ , we should know by tomorrow afternoon. But I'm betting my next paycheck, boss, that they're gonna be those same freaks of nature all of us have been reading about in the Times and Daily News. I'm _telling_ you they will!"

There went Clip's restraint with conviction. _'Oh fuckin' well. I'm right,'_ the detective silently chided.

Erik sighed and pinched the skin on the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and mulled over the information Clipper had lain before him. _'A-fucking-lot of homework and connecting the dots will need be reserved on this one...But.'_ Erik's inner voice resonated determinant and he knew it: he believed Clipper–against his every fiber of dislike for the man himself–and would dedicate his entire departments resources to solving this monster of a case.

Well. _Only_ after he's received word that the remaining victims– _that they are aware of_ –are in fact, mutants. And because personally, Erik has a _fuck_ load to lose, should anyone discover his own genetic "anomaly," he couldn't broadcast the case files _just_ yet.

Steps were to be taken–to ensure neither he, nor Raven would ever be subjected to those blood specimens tests. He couldn't foresee _why_ or _how_ some agency would see fit to have him, or any of his personnel checked, but Erik knew he couldn't take that chance. His actions in keeping the case under tight wraps would take them as far as he could take it–before _other_ jurisdictions–agencies–inevitably dug their greedy hands in his team and their hard work.

That- _that_ took the piss from Erik–whenever he allowed himself to dwell over past homicides that had spanned state lines, thus bringing in the spooks and the boys in black. All of his hard work, Raven's and Clipper's, Logan's and McCoy's, all of them and it, "confiscated" and repurposed to suit the suits. It was maddening for Lt. Lehnsherr, but that _was_ protocol.

"Listen, you're excited, that's obvious, Learman, and rightfully so. This is a _big_ fucking case you just- _stumbled upon?_ -so happened to **quietly** put together, but we need to keep a lid on it for the time being. It's...controversial to say the least." A pause. Clipper's face drew somber. "Don't give me that goddamn "oh woe is me" face either–you know it doesn't work on me- _fucking listen_ to me Clip. If we've got some prick roaming the city _and_ suburb streets looking for Mutant X and his cousins' head on a slab, it's deeper and much more dangerous than _you_ think it is. You-we...seemingly don't know _anything_ about this killer yet. Nothing. You...you fell into some hot water with this one." Erik finished his miniature declamation and shook his head slightly.

This. _This_ would be his "case of the century" and it involved the murdering of his own kind.

Anger and rage began to ebb and flow on the outskirts of his emotional range. The old familiar tingles of revenge and vengeance were nabbing at him now, but _no_ , he would not pursue this as a mutant. He was a detective. A highly respected, efficient Lieutenant and he would act accordingly.

Though.

Erik couldn't wait to share the discovery with Raven. To have her sort through the case folders with him and him _only_ , would be something of a rare treat for the pair. But he knows that they must remain focused and not allow their minds to wander too far from their _actual_ purpose in solving this behemoth. Catch the fucker, watch him fry. _After_ they have had an hour or two of fun with the bastard, of course.

Back in the present though, Learman waited impatiently for directives.

"So...So what do you suggest we do now, sir?" Learman's voice sounded deflated, but only slightly. He was also swelled with determination to see _his_ case through, but Lehnsherr knew that was just how the man operated. Nervous but resolute and protective. It was a pattern that had worked on more than one rodeo, as they say.

Erik had seen it in their time together as both his colleague, _and_ for the past four years, his boss. " _We_ do nothing until _I_ hear about the confirmed DNA testing–tomorrow, yes?–that's what you mentioned earlier?" Erik's eyes pierced a steely cold straight through Clippers heart, and if the stunned man hadn't been sitting down, he would have fallen onto the linoleum in a swift crash. Erik was all but shutting Learman out of his own case–and Clipper _knew it_.

 _'Thanks for your hard work, we've got it from here,'_ was the attitude.

Erik had that sort of effect on his _people_ and Clip was no exception. Truth be told, Raven was the only- _though Logan held up pretty well so far_ -one who had never been left with rattling kneecaps after a _serious_ discussion in the Lt.'s office. Lehnsherr liked a strong disposition: it kept his team tight, effective but above all, it kept them _good_ at what they did.

Hence Erik's state-wide control of all cold, pending or open cases that no other New York station had been able to penetrate and burst wide apart. He liked it–loved it even. But it never went to his head. The goal was to catch and watch as Lady Justice hid those pretty eyes of hers but did what needed be done.

Speaking of women.

Lehnsherr spoke with an edge of annoyance now, as though each of his words were breaths being frustratingly exhaled. "Clip, get Logan and McCoy and get your ass **out** of my office. If I need you, I'll get you. Thanks for bringing this to my attention, but next time–and hopefully there _isn't_ a next time–don't skulk around here and expect not to be treated like the creepy fuck I know you are. Understand?" Erik half-grinned as a final touch to his closing statements and shuffled the folders around on the center of his wooden desk. He'd delve into them the moment this man exited through the office's entranceway.

Clip nodded and made his way towards the door. "Oh, and one more thing Learman?" Erik called out, his hands now at ease–fingers interlocked, palms resting against the warm hair on the back of his head–chair reclined as though he were relaxing. Clip turned slowly, having not expected to be addressed by the Lt. so soon.

"Sir?" Learman sounded hopeful.

"Don't forget to get me that croissant. I'm _starving_ now. And tell Darkholme to get in here. I need to see her." Erik's bottom lip swelled red with the heat emanating from his radiating ignorance. And he didn't give a single shit. Learman worked _for_ him, not _with_ him, when it came time to build a case that was bigger than Jesus Christ. At least, that's how Erik chose to operate.

And it always worked well in the past.

The magnetic mutant believed these sorts of personality traits stemmed from the seething distaste he held for the detective but, honestly, it was anyone's guess. He was the boss–he called the shots.

But _guess_ , they did–his other hard working, non-disruptive detectives. Learman was–more often than not–the butte of the station's jokes for his wise-ass idiocy or his turncoat ass-kissery that made them sick with disgust. Clipper was _that guy_. What was worse? _That guy_ knew it.

But.

Erik watched Clipper's throat contract around the lump that had _just_ formed there, and sighed with contentment. The Lt. went on-"croissant, Darkholme, _now_ , thank you," before placing his black-blazered elbows atop the calendar on his desk. Erik was just getting aggravated–it wasn't fun anymore.

Clipper left before he made any _real_ wrong decisions and Erik watched as the detective called Raven over to inform her that the boss-man "requested her presence in his humble abode." _Oh_ , how Erik had longed to physically _slap_ that man. She, without question, acquiesced and dropped her paperwork in a flash.

She knocked lightly at first, waiting on Erik's discretion and then entered, shutting the door behind her. The entire station knew of their relationship–as mandated paperwork had been drawn up to officially declare the both of them as being _romantically_ involved with one another–but it never made any member of their team feel put out. She was never favored over any other, and if _they_ hadn't been made publicly aware, many of Erik's detectives wouldn't have known he and she were linked–at _all_.

It was an odd thing, but one the station had welcomed; many of them had thought her presence–influence–would soften Erik _just a touch_ , or make him more apt to not simply be their boss, but also their friend.

How wrong they had been. Nothing had changed–not even his mood. It was Erik's way to play the parts of two people– _three_ if they counted his mutation as a single. He wouldn't see it fit to alter any more than he already had. The war had seen to that, but it had lead him _here_ and made him as efficient as an ice pick to a block of frozen water.

Raven loved him for all of these things, yes, but also for all of what he held so closely to him. She _saw_ who he really was, what he was and what he had survived and he complimented her life to a perfect fault. They worked–seamlessly.

"Sir?" She asked, her dark brown hair tied up in a ponytail, its thick strands swaying over the tops of her shoulders. "You wanted to see me?" Raven sat easily into the right of Erik's two "hot seat" chairs and threw the shin of one leg onto the knee of the latter. Her fingernails picked at the looping laces of her black combat-esque boots- _she had taken to wearing these as a beat cop, finding them incredibly perfect for the job and continued the habit to her new in-office conditions now_ -while she waited for Erik to acknowledge her.

She knew his routine better than the rest. If Erik was engrossed or reading through a thick case file, she could wait the better part of two minutes before he realized she had not only _come in_ to his office, but had started speaking to him as well. "Deaf" she had often chastised him as, with a light and fun-loving tone–one married to the smooth texture of her voice.

"Darkholme, yes, my apologies. You're having a good day?" Erik's mouth was straight and unflinching–which scared the piss out of Raven. He had _never_ inquired to her with any sort of personal intro's during business hours, so that simple question came as a shock. "I...ye-ah, I suppose?" Her eyes wouldn't meet his, but rather ran across the uncovered portions of wood on his desk. He had recently cleaned and polished it, she noticed.

"That's good. Well, I believe I've found something that may make it better...or _worse_ , depending." Erik waggled his eyebrows in excitement – but for the life of him, he hadn't understood precisely _what_ he was excited over. The case? The dead mutants? _'No. Definitely not that.'_ The possibility of hurting the–undoubtedly–human fucker who believed he could take it upon himself to torture and maim his own kind? _Raven's_ own kind? The options appeared endless. Yet, excitement didn't exactly feel like the appropriate path for the amount of bodies that had been turning up.

Nevertheless.

"Okay. Sir, what is it?" Raven asked, her body leaning forward in an effort to get that much closer to Erik–and his discovery. Even if they were a block of constructed wood away from one another.

"A case. A really _big_ -goddamned case, is what it is." Erik collapsed his hands over the opened folders and looked her directly in the eyes. He smiled lightly as she shifted the color of her orbs to match his own–a brilliant _emerald_ –and then looked down to the papers spread neatly beneath his arms. "Dead mutants. Three confirmed, six total homicides. Serial killer, but not going in and out of state, it seems. He's appears to be staying local. Quantico has three more DNA samples coming back here tomorrow and _I'd_ bet my only surviving Reichsmark it confirms that they too, were also mutants. I also...don't believe these six are the only victims. I get the distinct impression _Sir serial fuck_ has been doing this much longer than the five months Learman has clocked him at."

Erik watched Raven slightly scrunch her nose up at the sound of Clipper's name. A nod, "yeah, he was the one that put it all together though, so I owe him credit insofar as that is concerned. As it were, I think you and I should dedicate some, shall I say, _personal_ resources to this case. We have to find this one, and fast." Erik's tone dropped, his hands falling slack against his person.

"You're worried?" she asked, her hands longing to reach out and touch his own, but knowing fully well where that would have lead. Instead, Raven held herself back and did nothing.

Erik nodded, "concerned, rather. I don't know how these murders fell under our- _my_ radar for so long. It's as if...someone _knew_ they were **dead** mutants and chose to do nothing. If this had come across my desk–even just _one_ of them–I would have done everything in my power to see it solved _and_ justifiably closed. But it's-Raven, why is no one is _missing_ any of these deceased?"

For the first time in the entirety of Raven having known Erik, never once has he openly been _emotional_ over a case. But none of those dozens before had been mutant-related or as shrouded in mystery as this one was seemingly turning out. Perhaps it was an adjustment to his not having received word of _any_ of these murders until just a half hour ago. Or maybe–just maybe–Erik was disappointed in himself that nothing had been done to save _any_ of these young girls and boys.

As though he were personally responsible. Raven shuddered to think.

To read of multiple homicides, all sharing similar circumstances and patterns surrounding their deaths, and then to have discovered _half_ of the dead were mutants? Raven absolutely understood the incredulity that was wrecking havoc in Erik's mind at present.

"Erik?" She threw caution to the wind and moved to stand beside him, placing a tentative hand on his lean shoulder. He flinched. He must have forgotten to speak for an extended period of time, and her presence jarred him back to reality. "This is...something just doesn't feel right with this one," came his tired, empty response.

Tired. Erik was audibly _tired_.

It was in stark contrast to the strict level of professionalism and strong exterior he maintained, thus worrying her to the point of physical assertion. She tugged lightly on his arm, "hey, hey, what's going on in that head of yours? If only I were able to read your mind..." A saddened, unfamiliar sigh escaped Raven's lips then, a sound that, up to this very moment, Erik hadn't been familiar with. He took stock in the way her voice lingered over the second portion of her sentence, thought to remember it at a later time, and quickly dismissed it for now.

"Sadly, you cannot. I'm fine now. I'll be taking these home- _Erik waved the now-closed folders in the air, his eyes refocused on the job he had lying ahead for the remainder of the day_ -so you and I will be able to sort through some of the finer details tonight. For now, Clipper is about to walk in with my croissant. Just a warning." He ducked as she made to swipe at his head, but watched as she speedily regained her composure.

Affection was a distant thing here in his office.

"Yes. I'll bring the maps and markers, you bring the files. We'll catch this fucker, Sir, you know _we_ will." Raven spoke her piece and exited through the now-reopened door, just missing Learman as he delivered the boss his late morning meal.

Erik said nothing as the detective laid the food down onto his desk, but nodded his head in hopes that it would be suggestive enough for Clip to, well, get lost.

It wasn't.

"I've been wondering, Sir, why has no one reported these killings to the authorities or even the news stations? There's been little, _well_ , nearly **no** exposure and I find that relatively odd, considering the rate with which this station receives and solves homicides. Odd that we weren't notified from _any_ other department–not even the coroner's office." Learman's words drew Erik's head up and it was then the Lt. felt the pit in his stomach drop an inch farther from where it had just been formed.

Erik coughed before speaking, his throat dry on account of the radiator heat filling up his room. "That is curious, isn't it Clip? I also find it curious–or _odd_ –that _you_ were the _only_ one to connect these homicides together in the first place. And, now that we're on the subject, how long have you been researching these cases?"

Erik watched the color drain from Learman's already-pale face.

That was enough trepidation for another invite to talk.

"Sit down, Clip." Erik stood up and rounded his desk, moving to sit half on, half off the corner edging of it. "Tell me, who was the first victim and who was the last? How did you dredge up their information and what...really, _what_ made you check into their DNA for possible relations to the mutant community?"

Erik felt, with each passing question, that he was interrogating his own detective. _'Bad moon rising, Lehnsherr.'_ But he wasn't able to refrain the oozing frustration that was damn near falling out of his mouth. Lehnsherr **needed** to know.

Clipper fidgeted uncomfortably in what was now, _really_ , a "hot seat." "Sir, I...I had a thought to track runaways a couple of months ago, and it drew up a few names– _two_ of those names are now in that top folder–but here's the thing: they weren't reported as runaways or missing persons by their families. Because they _have_ no families on record. Two were orphans that had recently reached the legal age of eighteen and were, by my extensive research and findings, living on the street. Both of the teens that were listed as runaways, were named as such by their close friends–whom were also living on the streets at the time I had interviewed them. Another three of the victims weren't even listed in any database, save for the cryptic coroner's office reports that all but lured me for a visit. So I went downtown and personally saw to those three bodies. Having seen them, I _then_ hit the pavement with their images and before noon I came up with their names– all _three_. That means, five of the six were living on the streets, or had, at one time or the other, taken up residence in a homeless shelter. The sixth–who was actually the last person I had come across, but the only official missing person to make the wire–was a girl from, _get this_ , California. She told her parents she was _"coming to visit the city that never sleeps."_ Well Sir, I can't confirm that she made it to New York City, but I know her name, and how she died. She didn't register in _our_ missing persons database, but I discovered her name in a country-wide expansion of the perimeters I had created when pursuing this big fuck of a case. I...they were all dead by the time I had come across their names or bodies, obviously. All here in New York, relatively close to Westchester. And all of them died within the last six months–except for that last one. She died nearly _twenty months ago._ "

Erik hadn't made a sound since Clipper began his detailed review of the victims, but his mind was reeling from the neglect that lead them all here–into folders atop his solid oak desk. He felt icy and chilled, as though his window were wide open to a blizzard that simply wouldn't stop.

 _Rage_. How. How could this have happened–and right under his nose? Erik was shaken, his core values and beliefs bruised. But the anger was...blinding.

Gathering himself, the Lt. understood that panic or a visible show of emotion wouldn't bode well with Clipper; the idea that it could very well reveal his own hidden DNA was one, but to frazzle his underlings over a case he knows very little of, _well_ , that exhibited weakness. And that certainly wouldn't do.

"Okay, good work Learman, but...mutants? How does that factor into anything you've just described?" Erik's eyes were deadly focused now, knowing _this_ part of the twisted on-going tale would make or break Clipper's personal vendetta. Outwardly, Erik waited silently. Inwardly, he was birthing a new stomach-ulcer over where this path might take him.

Clipper straightened in his seat and leaned forward slightly. "That last girl? Her name was Jubilation Lee–Jubilee for short–and at current, a _known_ mutant is serving time in a FBI-mandated facility for her murder. He's...the mutant is a telepath who was discovered at the scene of the crime by local authorities. He maintains his innocence, but _fuck_ if the FBI gives a crying hoot. They have a mutant _in custody_. God only knows what they've done to him, eh?" A pause then, as Erik's eyes flashed crimson. "Continue, Learman." Clipper shuffled his feet, his excitement over a mutant specimen in the hands of government officials having fallen on deaf ears. "So, clearly he can't be the serial, as he's been locked up since her death, but he has no resounding proof to fight against his conviction. Knowing even that much, I still wondered if this mind-reading bastard had a taste for his own kind, and thus, began the methodical testing with the FBI's genetic laboratory in Quantico. I figured it might pay off, and it did."

Erik stared on, eyes only blinking when the need was too great to deny. He processed the information and then opened his mouth; questions begetting questions. "And because of this one mutant–who, as you've said, _could not_ have committed the other five homicides because of his current incarceration–you believed the others were related on account of their homeless-gone-missing status?"

Clipper all but sighed with discontent at Erik's silent, _in-between-the-lines_ digs at him. "Sir, regardless of my methods, I've connected them, haven't I?"

"Yes, Clipper, you have. But what _I'm_ trying to understand, are your methodic connections, _really_ , and that is all. But also...what- _what_ is the name of this incarcerated mutant–you said he was a telepath? I'd like to pay him a visit–unless of course, _top cop_ , you've since beaten me to the punch?" Erik let his words float across the chasm of space between them before making any small movements–wondering if Learman would ever stand the fuck up for himself, _or_ continue to submit to indignant comments offered on his behalf.

Clipper's eyes pulled, a frown telling of his echoing inner turmoil–degradation ringing loud and clear–that was busy traveling through his mind, poisoning his confidence. Sometimes, _well_ , sometimes Learman resented Lt. Lehnsherr, when in regards to how verbal put-downs served zero purpose. But honestly, the man in charge _was_ right more than he was wrong. Which was never. What _could_ Clip say to defend himself in the end.

Easy answer: nothing.

"I, Sir no...I have _not_ paid him a visit. I didn't believe I'd be granted permission to visit him in a FBI owned and operated facility and so, didn't risk it. But his name–he's English actually, once wealthy and at one time, a Westchester native until-" Clipper was cut off by Erik's obscene and darkly gazing eyes. "The _name_ , Learman, I just want his _damn_ name, not the history of his mother's cat," Erik spat out, his mouth twisting in wanton anger.

If _anyone_ were known to get under Erik's skin on a regular beat, as it so often had seemed, it always traced back to Clipper _goddamned_ Learman.

Clip rolled his tongue over the chapped bottom of his lip before speaking, and then spoke a name Erik would come to memorize quicker than the pulse of his own heartbeat.

"Sir, his name is Charles. Charles Francis Xavier."

Erik nodded silently, curiously.

 

________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> 'Wenn Sie es schaffen, Erik, nie nie wieder sehen.' = If you make it, Erik, never never look back. (Direct translation, as per google, reads "if you make it, Erik, never see it again." But I wrote it to mean the former of the two!) My German buddy hasn't read this one yet, but if you do, Estelle, let me know if I should change that!<3
> 
> Thanks for the views/kudos! It warms my heart during the drab month of January. :)
> 
> Special special thanks to Nihil, Azryal, & Spoonring for leaving comments–you have no idea how much it's appreciated!xxoo


	4. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik looks deeper into the case files, Charles attempts to handle his solitary confinement.
> 
> Note: FBI details are created and fabricated to best fit this chapter. Although some research was applied, the extent has been, well, BS'd, otherwise this story wouldn't be able to continue on. I promise it's sellable BS though. ;)
> 
> Also, not to be an uber-creeper, but I've finally set up shop on Tumblr for the sole purpose of Cherik/McFassy posting & updates on the progression of this fic, if anyone is terribly interested. Find me here: http://abandonedworld.tumblr.com/ & if that doesn't work, I'm under the same name as my LJ & this here AO3 pen name. Thx lovelies!

**Part I:**   
_A Murder of Ravens_

Chapter 4: _Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,_

  


________________________________________

 

Erik began a steady pace on the weathered yellow of the office's linoleum floor. Once Clip left, the Lt. was left to ponder his next series of moves–he knew there were many paths to follow in the days ahead. But, for now.

The German native listened to the hushed sound; the rubber soles of Erik's shoes scuffed, marked the pliable surface with onyx slashes as he strode along–as they struck the smooth, worn surface, he found himself delighting in the soft resonance being emitted.

Simple pleasures.

It wasn't often Erik felt a certain kind of peace, nor was it that he ever truly at ease, but mulling over what he _knew_ was a case bigger than any he had ever worked on, well. Something instinctual lead him to believe such–albeit in the early stages of the open case yet–but Lehnsherr sensed that some of his career's best days lain ahead of him. Rather than focus on the dark histories of his past or allowing those memories to shroud any plausibility of suspicion surrounding this massive serial murderer, Erik was approached this monster head-on.

No holds-barred. No prisoners–not ever.

Lt. Lehnsherr felt as though he were a trained lion entering the den of another–an unknown species. Something foreign–alien perhaps. Or, he became a Great White shark suddenly, one having just caught the scent of blood as it drifted alongside the ebbing waves of the flowing sea. A fresh kill–Erik was on top of it.

On the hunt for a man who preyed on _his_ kind. And Erik wielded his most refined ideals of focus and intellect to be put to the ultimate test. A divinity created upon itself, as though a pearly-white luminescence laid over his consciousness; a comforting blanket of resolute knowledge came into him. _But_.

Still, it was of an odd consequence that he found himself torn between the _palpable_ readiness over just how solid these particular homicides were turning out to be, and the white-hot anger for having not been aware of them for so long. _Too long_. Erik felt he might have been able to stop it earlier, had he only been in the know.

It was no one's fault.

Well, save for the parents who let these children go, undoubtedly because of their _differences_ amongst the "human" population. These same mothers and fathers had unknowingly sent their offspring to their deaths, whether submitting that to their consciousnesses or not.

Erik stopped walking then, and turned to gaze inquisitively out of his office windows; a pain below–he hadn't realized how heavy his feet had trodden against the worn carpet, until the arches of his dress shoes felt tighter than he'd remembered. Nevertheless. The Lt. made to study the familiar surroundings–to prepare his mind for the barrage of details it was on the cusp of diving headlong into. He noticed many things then–things he wouldn't normally pay any significant attention to, but again, today was... _out of the ordinary._

The Lt. mentally noted his findings; these observations working as a means to clearing any residual cobwebs that might have taken up comforts there. He inhaled, exhaled. Releasing tensions brought on by his job, Erik moved everything unrelated to the wayside and _focused_. Truly, wholeheartedly focused on the world around him. Everything. Taking it in and categorizing it, one piece by one piece.

On the glass of his floor-to-ceiling windows hung dull-white venetian blinds that were in need of a good cleaning; there were thick patches of forgotten dust, dutifully the grayed particles attached themselves atop the individual plastic slats now, after much time and neglect. The acrid scent of burned coffee permeated into him as those emerald orbs wandered the stations expanse; his eyes moved with his detectives movements–their hands, arms and eyes never still. Some of them waved in distractive manner and with a desire to be heard by their fellow peer, it was no doubt a signal of some sort–a break in another case perhaps? _Then just there_. A shimmer, like broken pieces of glitter free falling on a sunny day. The fluorescent lighting strung above Logan's desk flickered–Erik counted–every sixteen seconds, and comically, the brown-haired brute flinched nearly every time they did as much.

Erik lips pulled up at the corners of his mouth in light sympathy–he would see to it that those fixtures would be replaced within the week. Then his eyes found _her_. His lapis lazuli. Raven was walking back to her desk, sheets of paper laying flat in her right hand, her left busy running five fingers through the wavy imitation brown hair that now laid relaxed on her shoulders. Her eyes were firmly set on the ink that marked those pages as she moved and handled them closer to her face; whatever it was, it was important enough to have her devote an absolute indeterminable amount of attention to.

Erik sighed–a reflection of emotion–as he watched her, but refocused and moved on in his line of sight.

Two chairs lined the station's back wall, neither one containing the day to day criminals they were intended for. Their wood had been scrapped down by the countless steel lockings of the cold metal from his detectives' handcuffs, their perpetrators meant to be kept firmly secured. The leather upholstery on both seats had long ago seen the end of its days, and everyone in the station had agreed in not replacing it. A guilty man was an uncomfortable man, and that was how it was to remain.

Erik's eyes rolled on, his hands now placed along the sides of his windows. The wedged molding that lined them was stripping clean of paint that hadn't been reapplied in a decade–at least–but Erik couldn't have bothered with it any less.

The station was old and tired looking, but his people were sharp and never lost sight of what was required of them. The inside of these walls had been witness to all walks of life, but never once had Erik been out of control, or withholding. His integrity was sacred. _Well_ , when it came to his line of work. Everyone, anywhere, at any time had secrets that were no one's but their own, himself not excluded. It was with well scrutiny upon himself on many a night did Erik conclude that his omissions were for the best. For _everyone_ involved.

That not withstanding, Erik knew he could trust his life with these men and women and never doubted their strength or propensity for the truth. And their tireless drive towards it.

Which made his next plan of actions all the more troubling.

Lehnsherr was at war with himself over how-but _no_ , he knew– _knew_ –that was how the handling of this _mutant_ serial case must be carried out. If he didn't go through with a low-key investigation, it could mean the difference between a career-crushing–and thus, _ending_ –blow that would rock the foundation of his entire department. If Erik didn't intend to play this serial close to the chest, a reveal would mean every case _ever_ solved by him _or_ his men could be brought into question, and _fuck_ , the guilty–or some of them–would, without doubt, walk free as a result.

And Erik could not- _would_ not tolerate that.

The guilt his mind was drawing out from these impending decisions and how best to follow through with everything, well, it was weighing on those lean shoulders of his.

But Erik could do nothing more than that with which he knew best: bust his German ass to catch an evil, murderous son of bitch. And he would; Erik knew with absolute certainty that he would find his man, and put an end to the silent mutant deaths that were littering his great state of New York. There was no other foreseeable option, really.

First though, Erik needed to pick through every shred of evidence, every line of detail and every single note ever written, typed or jotted down in the two folders that lay waiting on his desk.

Waiting on the right person–him–to tie it all together and bring any semblance of justice to a man who deserved a fate worse than death. And Erik felt ready to immerse himself, to put his mind into that of a killer's so that he might catch end up catching one.

_So._

Erik began at the beginning. _At the expense of another's tragic end._ A dead mutant was the worst kind of mutant to Erik, and as his thoughts swirled over their tragically cut-short lives, vengeance steadily boiled beneath the hardened skin of his exterior. Lehnsherr felt sick and angry, as his green eyes sailed on–scanning the paperwork and photographs now, as they lain neatly categorized before him.

Laid out in squares of two across and three down, the six profiles–stacks of stapled, clipped paper ranging from thin to thick in their amount of completed or ongoing analysis–were ready for his undivided. Erik cracked his knuckles, one-two-threefour pops and then stretched his fingers out, almost kneading the heated air surrounding him. Now, his hands were ready.

In a last ditch effort of energy release, Erik looked over to see his half-eaten croissant and did his best to stifle a hollered expletive at the thing. He shook his head and reigned his anger back into him, officially focused on the task at hand in solving the "Mutant Murders," as his mind had come to identify them.

Erik's steely eyes set first on the stacked case file of the bottom row, farthest right.

Or, #6, titled: "Jubilation Lee: Case #0006. Tested for Genetic Anomalies: **Confirmed Mutation**."

At the bolded word, Erik's blood raced like hellhounds escaping Satan's fiery grasp. Lenhsherr felt the thump-thump thump-thump pounding in his ears, his stress level bubbling over now. _'You're making this too personal, Erik. Be a detective, see through it and do your fucking job.'_ Erik quietly accosted himself as his mind fishtailed; anger was coming in successive tsunami waves as he read of the dead girls intel.

She was the last girl discovered, and as luck would have it, she had been identified. But Lee was the _first_ –or so Clipper's research had lead him to believe–to have been murdered nearly two years ago. Her name was Jubilee, or Jubilation Lee, and at the tender age of fifteen years old, Erik couldn't stop seething as he poured over the fine print.

The officially typed reports, stamped with metal and fluid-like black ink, summed up the extent of her short life and subsequently, her untimely demise.

Erik read the facts to start, his breath hitching as each sentence proceeded into the next.

_Sex: Female.  
Race: Chinese-American.  
Age: 15.  
Height: 5'4".  
Weight: 115 pounds.  
Hair color: Black.  
Eye color: Dark Brown.  
Hometown: Berkley, California.  
Other names victim has gone by: Jubilee_

...and then a break appeared in between the identifiable details to make room for _the_ headlining fact.

**_***GENETIC ANOMALY: CONFIRMED MUTATION.  
***Be please advised, victim has been labeled as a CONFIRMED MUTANT._ **

...and then the information continued on, as if making the reader aware of her genetic alterations were of any consequence to their physical person. Clipper had typed up those lines as though Jubilee would or _could_ still harm an innocent. Simply because she _had_ been a mutant.

It was pure revulsion to Erik. Jubilation Lee was long gone, so categorizing her as a possible _guilty_ mutant when she had been alive, was complete and utter disrespect to this young girl. A young _dead_ girl.

Nevertheless, Erik continued on through the initial top-page description of Lee's life.

_Notations/Observations:  
Poor relationship with parents lead to her running away.  
Parents reported Lee as missing person in Berkley, CA approx. 3 days of her running away.  
Believed to have fled to New York City; actuarial arrival location remains unknown.  
Photographic evidence shown through counties Pleasantville, Thornwood and Hawthorne, NY has not immediately returned any possible sightings; expansion to additional surrounding areas required.  
At time of corner's office arrival, victim was fully clothed.  
No signs of sexual trauma._

_Objects on person at time of death:_

 

* Purple wallet–$174.88 USD, small denominations

  

* California identification card listing her as Jubilation Lee, resident of Berkley, CA

  

* Receipt from Lakewood, Ohio diner–date on receipt: 27 April 1960

  

* 1 Photograph of fireworks

  

* Lock-box key.

 

The Lt. stopped as he reached the end of the young girls list of personal objects.

 _AngerRage_ -and- _whywhywhy_ began to assault his thoughts right then.

Erik balled his hands into iron fists, then shifted his gaze to study the date on his current monthly calendar. Today read as 17 December 1961. If his math were correct–and it _always_ was–Jubilation had been killed the same month _or_ around April of 1960. _"She's been dead nearly twenty months."_ Clipper's statement about Lee's time of death ping-ponged around the facts and details Erik had just read, and did nothing but create more mystery.

Pausing to lean back against the soft leather of his chair, Erik pondered over Jubilation's crime scene and how she had been discovered–as described in full by Learman. A man– _mutant_ –named Charles Xavier, had been found splashed over with her blood, promptly arrested and thrown into a FBI facility- _prison_. And that, eerily enough, was seemingly that.

But Erik knew by the mountains of paperwork on his desk, that there had been no solid proof of Xavier having ever committed such a heinous act. And also...these murders had continued well after Charles' capture. Clipper had obviously put two and two together in confirming the English telepath's innocence–anyone would do the same–but then _why_ had Xavier been at the scene of the homicide in the first place?

Erik's mind buzzed with the desire to have these and _every_ one of his questions answered, and knew right then, he wouldn't take "no" for an answer from here on out. From anyone. Not the FBI or any other federal government group of over paid, monkey-suited fuckers.

But now wasn't the time to get up in arms, nor was it the time to lay blame with irrational accusations before all of the facts have been properly sorted through.

No, today was an afternoon best spent reading, or rather, _studying_ the connections Erik _knew_ Clip must have–and chances are–probably _did_ miss. The answers were here, in these folders, Erik just needed to find them. Connect them.

So Erik kept going, deeper.

He flipped the top sheet of paper over, it's pale surface catching the air of his throaty sigh. Erik watched as the paper swayed, the right corner curling out onto itself; small shadows casted pyramidal shapes over the rest of the victims file and Lehnsherr felt the center of his chest go rigid.

It dawned on Erik then, how something as simple as exhaling was lost to Jubilee so very, painfully long ago.

 _'Too personal, Erik. Goddamn it.'_ He inwardly throttled himself for such deep immersion; it had happened so fast, Erik barely had time to register what was truly changing in him. _But_ , he forged on. Solving this might bring _some_ peace to his altered mind–even though years earlier, Erik hadn't ever considered peace of an option open to him. For him.

He resigned himself to live with his demons and his scars and his darkness but would do so with the guidance of light and, well, _love_ from Raven. She had saved him from a life of emptiness and sorrow.

Erik thoughts conjured up an image of Raven once more before moving past this momentary reprieve–but not before steeling himself through the impermeable strength that was ever radiating from her.

And then his two ivy-colored eyes locked onto the photographs pinned securely to the manila folder; they had been living inside there all those wasted months and finally, the time was now–they would be be seen by the right one.

Erik's fingers touched upon the photos exterior–the glossy textures were a trait best handled by professionals, or by the department's lead investigative photographer. His throat contracted.

 _The_ images of the crime scene itself imprinted onto his visual memory–sensations that _somehow_ , the imagery of where this dead girl had been murdered was being seared into the onyx of his now-blown pupils. Erik wondered briefly then if there were any booking-shots of Charles Xavier and reserved a mental note to sort through for such in the near future. A face to a name was a lucrative thing in Erik's line of work. _But then_.

A face appeared.

 _Jubilation's_ face was now staring up at Erik from the second photograph within the set of- _Erik counted them_ -seven others. Her eyes were cold, and shocked–wide open. As though she had been caught off guard–scared. They were blackened, vacant orbs that screamed of fear and horror. Erik could see flecks of blood caught around and _in_ the whites of those lost eyes and he nearly closed his own in stunned respite.

This sort of thing Lehnsherr had seen both first hand and in crime scene evidence for nearly his entire life, but Jubilee's shots were... _different_. At least, to him they appeared in stark contrast to everything he had ever seen up to this specific moment. He was _sorry_ this girl had died. Erik felt as much and recognized how new of an emotion–one that was quickly becoming stronger–to him it was.

All of this was becoming a new level of awareness for Erik, but he could do nothing to stop it from growing–rapidly at that. And really, if it helped in solving this case–and _only_ this case, the magnetic-man wouldn't alter the circumstances in the least. If it worked, it worked.

Erik's fingers shifted the photos around, went through one after the other. The following three were captures of her body–angled as though she had been waiting for a chalk line of chipped-white to be drawn around her, an outline–only then to be succeeded by pictures of the wounds sustained. _But fuck_. He hadn't expected that amount of...blood.

Her blood, according to the photographs, had been... _everywhere_. Splashes and fragments of a fevered, angry red scattered about, as if a rabid animal had been let loose the moment she passed from this world to the next. There were voids though–unscathed patches of white wall breaking up the bloods cast off, leading Erik to question the assailants position when murdering Lee. Something he would certainly go back and look further into.

The actual space, a house- _apartment perhaps_ -was in complete disarray. There were burned patches littering the area, of wallpaper and furniture, but that blood was...incomparable. It looked as if every last drop of her had been purposely siphoned out and ejected onto the walls, carpet and comforts of the living area. It damn near covered Lee's entire body–with the exception of her face–one thing also of a peculiar point of interest for Erik.

Lehnsherr couldn't accurately decipher what wounds she had received to have caused such bodily devastation, but knew he had seen enough for the moment. The remainder of the typed contents would tell him all that and more, and so, he dove back into the fine print with a hunger greater than when he had first began this macabre mystery.

Setting the photographs aside, he flipped them face-down, so as to spare even a minuscule shred of decency and dignity to Jubilee's memory. Odd again, this growing connection he felt to the young girl. Odder still that he paid into it and was, shockingly, beginning to _enjoy_ this emerging, once firmly hidden, softer side of himself.

Well, soft insofar as the care towards his own kind and a seething rage for the human fuck that had done this to her.

A strange sensation crept into him, a glimmer of familiarity. Like being close to home after an extended trip away. You can feel the warmth and the openness of what once was a comfort unlike any other and yet, Erik knew, a part of that person he used to be could never truly go back. The illusion still exists, the memories are a permanence, but the people have gone, the buildings have been torn down.

Everything changes, everything stays the same.

 _But inside._ Something inside of Erik was ...switching. Slowly, steadily moving towards a perspective he hadn't ever fully lent his mind to. As if there was a level of attention being owed after much time has passed. But he hadn't fully expected to have it, quite literally, fall directly into his hands–his lap.

 _'C'mon Erik, get your head straight.'_ The metal in the office hummed and vibrated just then, and Erik looked around his person confused-like. Unknowingly, he had been subtlety been influencing the metal handles, knobs and various steel objects within a five foot radius of himself. _'Verdammt.'_ Erik mumbled, calming the purring alloys with a swift swipe of his right hand. As if he even needed to have shown such physical exertions when utilizing his mutant gift.

Old habits.

 _But Jubilation._ Erik had many questions, one toppling over the next. Why had no one seen her after 27 April 1960–or were there witnesses refusing to come forward? Why had her parents waited _three whole days_ before reporting her missing? Bad relationships aside, a missing girl was a worrisome topic, a missing child? Blinding panic. And then there were those images–seven of them, detailed and sufficient enough. Yet, the voids on the walls left from the blood painting killer, were screaming at Erik; those meticulous drops were either thrown haphazardly or purposefully placed exactly as they were ...why? But _the goddamn voids._ Was Charles Xavier's clothes spotted and specked to suggest _he_ had been the one responsible for Jubilation's horrific aftermath? If one were to stand above their victim–say slashing them repeatedly–blood cast off would most assuredly speak to you as having been the muderer. Yet, no one seemed to have thought to include _any_ photographs of Xavier _or_ his attire from the crime scene documentation. Erik would ask that question if ever he had the telepath in his box.

The Lt.s frustrations were met with ever the more bristled emotions, but he pushed it aside. He had yet to find out just _how_ Jubilee was murdered. And ...perhaps that would assist in filling in some of the bigger gaps. _'Like a sick bastard painting with someone's blood.'_

So he reached out and grabbed for the stack of papers once more. The distractions were becoming intolerably annoying, but with all adjustments, there were minor setbacks. If these contemplative moments were to become such routines, well then the Lt. would take them with a grain of salt.

Erik licked the tip of his middle finger and swiped at the sheets of paper.

Page two brought him his answers. Clarity in the midst of great storms.

_Page 2.  
Jubilation Lee: Case #0006. Genetic Anomalies: Confirmed Mutant_

_Victim's hands were bound in lead-casted shackles.  
– Bindings appear to have been vintage or antique–circa early 1900's.  
Victim was repeatedly slashed with unknown object–slightly serrated and dull.  
– Wounds exhibited stretches surrounding the punctured skin–rounded or dull blunt force trauma.  
– Wound tracks ranged from 1" - 2.4" inches long and 2.3" in depth.  
Victim's left ear lobe had trace amounts of talcum powder–possible link to assailant.  
Victim's eyelids were missing all eyelashes–possible method of torture.  
Victim's tongue had been lacerated directly down its center–possible method of torture.  
Victim's stomach contents were empty.  
Victim's left ankle, wrist and shoulder were broken.  
Victim's liver, right lung and esophagus were perforated._

 

Erik needed to take a break. A brief respite from the line after line of terrors he was reading. This ...teenager had been brutalized and, as presumptions lead him along, methodically tortured before her death.

If it turned out that this Charles Xavier-man _was_ responsible Jubilee's death, Erik would personally pull the lever on his shiny new wooden chair.

Speaking of which, Erik placed his hands flat atop the vintage wood, his focused eyes searching out across the expanse of his desk. The rolodex was _there_ on the left-hand corner of the wide oak top and he reached out and seized it in a fashion that spoke with abandoned composure. He knew precisely the number he was looking for.

Scrolling through the undersized yellowing-notecards until he came to the F's, Erik's thumb sought past the locals until he landed on the field offices for the FBI. More specifically, their branch in Quantico, Virginia. He was phoning them _and_ scheduling a trip to visit within this current week.

Erik knew he had to act accordingly when doing this–and without suspicion. Lehnsherr couldn't lead those federal monkey-fucks to believe _he_ believed in the possibility of a wrongful imprisonment. Especially one under their supervision. And given he hadn't known _of_ or _met_ the professor up until-well, whenever he might be permitted to do as such, Erik knew lying would be his best bet. He also make a mental notation to neglect the sharing of any information that may lead the FBI to suspect a bigger case than just Jubilee's murder. Erik sighed dejectedly–albeit resolutely. Yes, that might suggest he was withholding information, but Lehnsherr knew how those officials operated.

And this was too important now. To him–to his kind.

Well, _yes_ , so it was in his best interests to withhold his dealt hand of cards, but it would also be a feat in itself to shroud this thing to its end. Determinedly, Erik _would_ follow through with whichever endeavor might lead him to the person or person _s_ that were lynching these poor young mutants, but he also didn't want to see himself hung up over protocol. That was a surefire way to an investigation never reaching its final destination, and thus remaining unsolved.

A burn coursed through his veins at the thought of that, but Erik bit down the fevered revulsion.

Lifting the telephone to his ear, the receiver rampantly chilled the warm skin of his ear as it was placed against it. Erik hissed as his body acclimated to the minute change. Pressing in the seven numbers that would lead him to the next–and hopefully biggest–break of the case, Erik took in a deep breath and closed his eyes.

 _'Xavier, have some answers for me. All I want... are your answers. What happened that day?'_ An inner metronome began to play, and Erik would find it on repeat in the events that were to come ahead. For now, he waited.

Erik heard the dial tone, then the sing-song sounds of his punched numbers as they made their way across the line. And then came a dry, flat-toned voice–a woman'd–with whom's reception was less than polite, "Federal Bureau of Investigation, Quantico. Name and reason for you call?" All business, all the time. If Erik hadn't hated the bureau–justifiably so–he might have come to respect them for all their stoicism and that famous no-bullshit attitude. As it stands.

"Lt. Erik Lehnsherr, Westchester, New York PD. Badge I.D. 782. I'm calling to speak with a- _Erik checked over the names on the Rolodex card in a quick pause_ -Ms. Frost, Emma." Erik waited as silence engulfed the other line of his connected call.

"Reason for you call, Lt. Lehnsherr?" There was that _no-bullshit_ tone Erik was swiftly tiring of.

"Request for maximum security prisoner visitation," came Erik's mirrored dry-toned response. He wasn't in any mood to kiss ass for answers–not that he had ever exhibited any tendencies to do such passive actions, _but_ –as much as he wanted to play different decks to solve this thing, Erik wouldn't abandon his natural charm. His specialties for cutting through to the heart of the matter were steadfastly sovereign and had a direct correlation to the amount of cases solved in his precinct each quarter.

_Although._

With all that being said, he would–and _could_ –bend the rules from time to time. Erik didn't enjoy it, _per se_ , but necessity came before all else. Dignity, no matter how subtlety damaged, wasn't irreparable. And that was the end to it for him. Do what needs done.

 _Or_ , the end justified the means.

Erik waited as the phone line pitched with a series of three-second bursts of static, and silent beeps hummed in a pattern of twos and fours, all _just_ within a humans–mutants?–hearing range. The receptionists voice hadn't ever returned, and Erik took that as a possible sign of his call being connected to the proper personnel–or even Frost herself. If he was _lucky_ , that is. It wasn't often a local departments Lieutenant struck gold on call #1, then again, Erik hadn't ever attempted a ring to the FBI's VA office before this moment.

Or its field office Assistant Director, Emma Frost.

Erik sat in the chair quietly waiting, his fingers running along the smooth shell of his telephone's exterior. The silky onyx texture and it's finely cut metal innards of the receiver were heavy against his ear, his head, but it was a familiar weight he was more than accustomed to. Most days, _admittedly so_ , were spent calling hospitals, jails, corner's offices, family members of victims, funeral homes, and just about any other service imaginable that all required a certain amount of time dedicated to being on _this_ telephone.

Erik waited.

And waited longer.

Until. _Yes, there was-someone...no some_ thing _there in the background of his recipients end_.

"Hello there?" Erik reached, unsure and now more than a little put off. This wasn't going at all as smoothly as he had originally hoped. _'Roll with the punches, Lehnsherr.'_

"Lt.?" One word, spoken ice-like, sending across a chill as though Erik had been standing directly in the middle of magnetic north.

"Ms. Frost, I presume?" Erik knew to watch himself and proceed with caution from this small talk they were now sharing. If one were to call it that.

A sigh then–just as frozen as her one-worded opening. "What can I do for you Lt.?" _'Oh ...to the point, shall we?'_ Erik thought inwardly, hearing the _snap_ of one of his knuckles as it was forcibly depressed beneath the strength of its neighboring finger. Cracking joints had been an easy release of tension build, and this woman was doing nothing to ease the flow of his current case.

"Right then. Ms. Frost, I'd like to gain access to one of your maximum facility prisoners. I was told _he_ was being retained there indefinitely. Aside from phoning you, I am not entirely certain as to what procedures need be followed in respects to this particular homicide–a homicide I believe your man to be the sole participant in." Erik breathed out and closed his eyes. He had come across sounding as though he were a rookie–a beat cop sitting in at a _real_ detectives desk for the day; it all but drove him mad, and he hoped she wouldn't refuse him based on first impressions.

Though, a sneaking suspicion that maybe, just maybe, his vocals propensity for innocence and inexperience _could_ work in his favor.

Erik waited. Nothing for what felt like five minutes. Five minutes of emptiness and a growing blackout that made Erik's stomach twist with warning alarms. Sirens loud and sure, piercing and fast, coming at- _no_ -coming into him at a frighteningly fast pace. The silence was _speaking_ to Erik, telling him tales of this god-awful woman from one achingly muted moment to the next.

"You want permission to visit a mutant, is this what I am lead to believe?" _'Fuck, she knew. **Somehow** she knew.'_ The words blurred through his mind, a messy, unkempt keep now that hadn't had the time to brush away the dust off from her insufferably long pause. _'Bitch.'_

 _But_. Erik stopped and took the time to gather himself. Something _just wasn't right_ about this FBI Emma Frost. He couldn't accurately place it upon his metallic fingers, but his gut had never lied to him, never lead him to believe otherwise when his mind had been set. There was no reason to suggest it would change at _this_ second in time, and so Erik did what he could and dove in head first.

"Yes, that's is exactly right." Stronger now, more confidence to his vocal responses. _'There, no reason to be a cunt about it,'_ Erik couldn't seem to stop the assaults he was handing over to...himself, but control was anything if not in his hands at the present time. Another pause.

"Ms. Frost, I understand the severity, and may I add, _secrecy_ of the prisoner– _mutant_ –you keep under your watchful eye. I only need to speak with the gentleman for a fraction of time. I assure you, I in no way intend to-" The icy FBI Queen stopped him with a _snort._ "Intend to what? _Steal_ him from me? Hah, I assure you, Lt. Lehnsherr, any attempts at transferring the mutant to better serve your local _town_ case, will most definitely be swayed by my divisions– _say_ –investment in him."

Erik didn't know what the hell to think after that– _decidedly creepy_ –bit of speech from Frost. _'Wrongwrongwrong, she is all wrong.'_

"Well, no. I had never intended to drive to Quantico _from_ Westchester, only to transfer the prisoner _back_ to Westchester for the duration of this investigation. That would be...asininity on my behalf, to say the least." _There_ he was. Erik felt his regimented and tight-ship ruling come back into himself. He welcomed it happily.

Then he realized just what had happened. Frost had been _distracting_ him. Knowingly leading him to an unrealistic facet of- _fuck_ -she was interrogating his intentions over the phone.

"Listen, I have a semi-closed homicide case. It lists as such, a one, Charles Francis Xavier, as being the primary–and _only_ –suspect _and_ the sole guilty party in the death of a young woman. I have _oh_ , roughly, ten to forty questions I need answered, and I _believe_ , Ms. Frost, that Xavier may be able to do just that for me. So, I ask again: may I be granted permission to _drive all the way down there_ in an effort to have a chat with _your_ mutant?" Insolence, but Erik hadn't the time to care.

He heard Frost _huff_ and what sounded like an audible sway of her hair. The status quo had been upended.

"When?" Frost inquired, hard and cold and resigned. She suspected, as well as Erik had of her, that he wasn't the type of man–person–to just _give up._

Erik sighed and pursed his lips, felt the vibrations between the top and bottoms as he forced air from within his tight lungs. "Wednesday morning, if that is possible." Wednesday would give Erik time to discuss the case–and subsequent details–with Raven both tonight and tomorrow night, while allowing him some wiggle room to prep questions _and_ make the trip south.

A pause–she was good at that, Erik was coming to find.

"Yes. You have your access, Lt. I will fax you documents that need to be filled out and returned _imminently_. Your visitor's pass will await you at the lobby in building 5. State your name and when asked your reasons for the visit, mention my name **only**. Security will escort you the remainder of the way. I will _personally_ greet you upon your arrival to the facility itself. Please call _this_ direct number- _Frost spat out seven numbers without cessation or repetition_ -to notify me of any changes that may incur over the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours- _another pause–a moment of respite?-Oh_ and Lt.?" Frost stopped herself abruptly.

"Ma'am?" came Erik's wandering voice. The Assistant Director laughed lightly and then, " _don't_ be late. This mutant is on a strict time schedule. I don't want to see it altered _or_ have our staff mishandle the situation in any way. Yes, I find it's best to avoid that possibility altogether and arrive the night before. Good day, Lt."

She didn't wait for him to say goodbye. He laid the handle of the phone down easily before a wave of relief set through him. _'Yes.'_

Erik bit down on the grin that was spreading across the boundaries of his face. His teeth had nowhere to hide but to show, bright white– _so many_ that Raven had caught it the moment Erik let the expression take full hold of his features.

He waved her into his office. A little more excitedly than he ever had, she noted.

Raven got out from behind her worn-down metal desk, eagerly, and all but pranced into Erik's radiator-warmed space, eyes alight. Erik looked at her as she entered, and for the briefest of moments, he thought he had caught the glimpse of a brilliant gold in the irises of her orbs. Detective Darkholme _was_ excited–visibly so–of that much he was certain. _And_ , she appeared more than a little curious to boot, but he knew it was just her way.

The Lt.'s hands ushered her to sit, the pair of seats beckoning her to them for the second time in one day. A slight grin spread over his usually cold, expressionless cheeks; there was no denying Erik was happy with his progress but he didn't want a premature set of emotions to run rampant just yet. Fears, superstitions, dead ends–though, he held no such stock in the formers–could all run him into a brick wall if he didn't play his cards _just right_.

So.

"Detective. We've new developments on that Learman-opened mutant serial. I'm headed down to Quantico on Wednesday morning to interview the man convicted in murdering–get this– _the_ first of the mutants on Learman's case list. I wasn't entirely certain...actually, _hell_ , I didn't think I had a shot at getting granted access- _a break in his briefing, Erik scratched the top of his forehead in deep thought before_ -shockingly, I did." Erik watched as Raven edged her body to the helm of her seat.

She grappled with how best to throw her name into the plausible pool of ride-along detectives–should Erik desire or even _want_ one of them to accompany him. As backup perhaps?

"Eri-Lt. please, _please_ tell me you'll require a team member to take down there with you?" Enthrallment bled out from each word of Raven's obvious request, said in a tone personally knowing full-well Erik had understood her desires. She waited, her breath bated and hopeful.

Lehnsherr leaned forward, the creaking, squeaking metal from beneath the angled position of his chair, filled their silence with leg-bouncing anticipation. He nodded resolutely, answering her without the use of words. "Today, I'll need the both of us to leave here relatively early in relation to quitting-time, get home and get deep into the shit of these files. I need a list of strong questions for Wednesday morning, but we'll be leaving tomorrow night so that we arrive earlier and without any hang-ups. I was _warned_. Goddamn FBI woman was icier than the arctic. Anyway, head back out there and I'll call down _in_ and around Quantico for their local motels. It's nearly three o'clock now and you know how work never manages to do itself." A cracked knuckle and a quick wink just _there_ before-"And Darkholme? Best if we don't tell Learman about this. He'll ask to join. I only have one permit, and that's for me–and it was... odd enough trying to obtain. So keep it here, yeah?" Erik's eyes were pointed downward as he mouthed the last part of his statement.

Raven understood. Taking an open case over without informing the person who had originally discovered it, _well_ , was a blatant breach of etiquette in the cop world. Course, Erik _was_ the Lieutenant, and didn't see it necessary to give a German fuck what Clipper Learman would think... but to keep matters simple and smooth, Lehnsherr did what needed be done. Avoid a precinct meltdown, or worse, suspicion into _why_ Erik was keeping a tight cap over this _big fucking_ serial at all.

Darkholme left Erik's office and then, "ahh yes," he quipped, remembering suddenly to retrieve the sheets of paper from the fax machine sitting directly behind his person. Erik had heard the muted ringing, felt the alloys in those spinning wheels–slow-going and in need of a proper cleaning–before the static of the phone line buzzed and hissed–its reception of the incoming FBI documents.

"This ought to be interesting..." Lehnsherr's mumble was one of ease, before he sorted through the- _'bloody hell'_ –twenty-two pages of legal forms. "Twenty-goddamned-two?"

As he reviewed each page individually, Erik felt as though he were applying to become an FBI agent rather than to visit one of their facilities. For a meeting that would last no longer than two hours–at the _most_. This was, Lehnsherr surmised, the exact reason he hated those men in black. Efficient, concise but... _too much paperwork_.

 _But_ for all intents and purposes, Erik found the first fine-point pen–one that had been wedged at the top of his desk–and set out in providing his information for the Feds' governmental, _no-bullshit_ forms.

 

________________________________________

 

_Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating  
then no longer,  
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your  
forgiveness I implore;  
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently  
you came rapping,  
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at  
my chamber door,  
That I scarce was sure I heard you"–here I  
opened wide the door,  
Darkness there and nothing more._

 

The words of the great one, Edgar Allen Poe and that of his Raven, rolled eerily familiar from Charles Xavier's tongue, as though they were being held up on an ethereal plane somewhere else and floated away on clouds of slippery silk and satin. A respect for them.

An invoked sense of calm came to visit him whenever he recited that–his most favorite of poems, or literature alike, but tonight- _today?_ -was an exceptional case.

It was Charles' ninth day in the hole. Or, _solitary confinement,_ for his mental–yet completely unintentional–attacks on Yuriko and Victor. His mind was all he had left at this stage, as filth and a constant residual of copper- _or perhaps that was rust?_ -lined the insides of his cell... _and his_ mouth. Charles groaned in displeasure for about the five hundredth time over his nearly week and a half stay, but could do more.

It wasn't a cement hole or one with rats and feces or _well_ , any of _those_ sorts of things one would believe to have been found in captive places, but rather a painted room. A _flat-black_ painted room, that is. And it's provisions were... _less_ than ideal for the sane man. There was nothing of substance or distraction–purposely, of course–for Charles to direct his mind towards.

It was just him and the onyx walls. Nine days into a fourteen day stint. _'Fuck.'_

Yet this room–although it couldn't possibly be classified as a room at all, what with its lack of windows, _no_ lights save for the illumination that crept through the 2"x5" hole of his iron door, and the absence of water–was driving Charles into believing he had actually been guilty after all. The days were _too long_. The nights were impossibly cold.

And then there were the strict schedules of his daily routines. Charles had fifteen minutes _twice_ everyday–and the hours between these brief reprieves were never similar to the prior days efforts–to relieve himself in the confinements lavatory. This was a closet-like space that sat securely fitted at the end of the facility's laconic, three-room- _dungeon?_ -corridor, ominously quiet from its lack of patrons. The areas surrounding had dark-grey walls, a matte appearance to them similar to his cells, serving nothing but depression and hopelessness as Charles passed them on his way to have a piss.

Charles listened to words inside of his mind now, whether it the recitations of _The Raven_ or his thesis dissertation from so many months before, he couldn't matter. "Hah, genetics, _Professor_. Genetics hath lead you astray, old chap," Charles said, speaking to no one other than himself. The irony in all of those university speeches on the betterment of man and evolution he had given, in all of those _personal_ meetings he had shown for. And for what? To end up in prison–wrongfully accused at that.

Even still.

Charles wanted- _no, longed_ -for the touch of another, be it their mind or body; at this moment in time, he'd all but settle for the shadows cast as they walked by his forgotten door. _Something_ to show him that he was still alive. Still a part of this world somehow. What they were doing to him, Charles understood, _was_ working, and he couldn't decipher which particular to be more angry with: the telepathic shut down, the hole he had been thrown into, or the lack of contact from _anything_ with a beating heart. It was- _all of it, really_ -becoming so...acrid and moldy and stiff and unkempt. His mind, his room... _him_.

Xavier, having being cut off from humanity and its, well not _kind_ graces but surely better than his current predicaments, was also lessening the importance he reserved and his ideals on civility. His morals were being tested, an hour at a time, his willfulness even more so. Had Charles ever the chance to swing his mental influence from high above the confines of his encapsulating walls, _well_ , then this place would be in for a crushing treat.

Lucky for the facility, they had thought to "proof" his room– _and the fucking corridor AND the fucking bathroom_ –with the same alloy the Russians had used in the manufacturing of those stupid _bastard_ mental-blocking helmets. So telepathically, he could do nothing to defend himself. Charles relied solely on the lean muscle he had begrudgingly amassed during the down time spent behind those icy bars.

All that aside.

Charles was just...mad. Most of the time now, he found himself angered, flustered full with deep seeded rage.

The former professor hadn't ever grappled with such viciousness in all of his twenty-nine years, and it was with much regret that Charles found himself, more and more these days, forgetting the man he had once been. But Charles felt this tactic would only serve in keeping him breathing–to forgo a life that wasn't his own anymore, and torch the memories that wouldn't–nor could they–change his present tense.

It was all he had.

Especially spending twenty-three hours and thirty minutes locked away–isolated. The beating of his heart was his nearest neighbor, the black walls his closest rival. It was ...inhumane, but then again, Charles knew he wasn't _really_ human the more he pondered that thought.

And back to his thesis, was where all these cold, lonely roads lead him.

But _there_. A knock- _bang, really_ -on the outside of the thick electronic door. Charles heard a muffled cry–a directive, not a voice in pain–before watching his door swing open of its own accord. _Well_ , of the facility's operations, no doubt, but Xavier amused himself in the smallest possible ways.

It was all he could do.

"On your feet. Exit the containment cell, turn right, take forty-two steps and stop. Turn right, take eight steps forward, enter the lavatory. You will have fifteen minutes-" Charles sighed and cut the broken-record speech coming from the mouth of a- _brainwashed?_ -mechanical man–his last name was Polaris. Charles always fancied that word.

In any case, he did as he was told.

It did however, allow him an escape from inside the sinking blackness of those four walls.

"Polaris, right? Mind if I inquire as to what day it is?" Charles hadn't known what made him ask a question–let alone _that_ question–to the man dressed in black–security–but nevertheless, there it was.

Posed and spoken as though he were the freest of all men, casually walking beside a stranger.

_'Right.'_

It caught the guard _off_ of his stoic guard, and for a brief moment, Charles wasn't certain as to what might become of the fate of his next "fifteen minutes"; would they be revoked for _speaking?_ Or would this man simply ignore him and act as though Xavier didn't probe into the most simplest of daily matters.

As it were, Polaris looked from his left to his right, checking–checking _what_ , Charles didn't have the faintest–before sighing, then, "it's Monday. Monday night. Now be quiet."

Charles bit the bottom of his too-red lip and nearly toppled over from those seven words. A conversation. _A conversation._ Ringing loud and somewhat prideful in his mind, Charles could have thrown his arms around the mans neck and planted a wet one on his cold, plastic-like features. He didn't, but the thought was there. And the happiness was also there.

 _But_.

Charles sensed his over-capacity wells of anger _hatethisplaceandthesepeople_ explode out and catch fire, as if it were a sunburst–brilliant, pure and painfully bright. His mind was creating images of spilt crude oil, the blue of an oceans water and burnt rainbows of reflections, and watched as all components fought against the other. Their physical properties didn't _allow_ for one to exist in the same space as the other, without a core degradation of each molecular makeup.

 _Those_ parts of the ocean would be destroyed if crude oil were to splash into it, and the same can be said of the latter. They simply _couldn't_ work, either together or apart once fate had forced their hand into meeting one another.

Charles was reeling from the inward projection of himself, drowning-like and horrified. He was the cerulean water being tainted and broken down, the facility–the commercial mishap that was infecting him, corroding him.

He realized all of this as he urinated into a metallic tube that was just below his genitals, and felt sadness for the first time in an extraordinary amount of time. Sadness for himself, his mind, his mutations.

Sadness for the girl who was probably not the first, nor last, victim of the man Charles had caught cutting into her like an American's Thanksgiving turkey. Sadness for his wrongful conviction and the hell he was living in–perhaps pity was there as well. He wouldn't dare admit to it though.

Sadness for never having gotten his Institution underway, a place once intended to help so many of the mutant children feel as though they _had_ a home.

Charles had failed _all_ of them by trying to save one of them. He had lived with that consequence for nearly twenty months now, and yet, it never got any easier. If only they would _listen_ to him–allow him to speak on his behalf. But it was though he were railroaded into this prison by the FBI, as if he were a wanted man _before_ he was found at the wrong place in the wrong time.

Strange thing.

So much, _so much moved_ inside of Xavier's mind, but the sadness, anger, and _hate_ were changing him, one fifteen minute respite at a time.

Finishing up, he turned and faced himself in the laughably-sized mirror that was bolted to the gray wall. His eyes appeared to be a duller blue than from the previous days intensive glares, but it was the sunken shadows underneath of them that caught the majority of his attention. He was... _haggard_ looking, as though he had missed out on seeing the sun every day for the last ten years of his life. Prison didn't look good on Charles.

But during each of these breaks, when he had been let into this closet lavatory to piss or otherwise, Charles had reassured himself with absolutely clarity,- _hope?_ -that eventually someone would come for him. Somehow, some way, a person–or mutant–outside of these walls would realize the err of the FBI's raving misjudgment in remitting Charles to this waking hell.

Xavier's words had never been any more clear, neither before or after this daily ritual had begun to take place, only nine days ago.

And so he stood there and quietly subdued his rage, feeling around blindly for the familiar tendrils of sensational hope dwelling within–fleeting as it may be, before: "You're out there. You're going to find _me_ and I'm _going_ to leave this place. Find me. _Find me please...and soon._ "

The bathroom door swung open violently, signaling the end of his isolated recess.

Charles returned to his blackened, suffocating room, his pleas echoing off the curves of his skull. _He would be found and freed._ It _needed_ to happen. And it would.

Someday. By _someone_.

Charles could only pray it wasn't too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> "Verdammt" = Damn, Dammit in German
> 
> Just wanted to send a hearty thank you for the amazing few of you out there who have bookmarked, commented or have given me kudos! It's literally equivalent to a beating heart for me...as in, it keeps me alive and kicking! xxoo
> 
> [[ due to unexpected delays in a dead mac + some serious battling with a demonic cold, I went mia for a hot second. but new mac is up & running & cold has all but dissipated so chapter 5 will be appearing veryyy soon! ]]


	5. Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik & Raven discuss the case files–Raven comes clean about a secret long kept from Erik. Charles ponders his past from within his isolation.

**Part I:**  
 _A Murder of Ravens_

Chapter 5: _Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore–_  
________________________________________

Lt. Erik Lehnsherr had made a reserved exit–albeit earlier than what was typically considered quitting time–but hurriedly left the station for the evening. Homeward bound and eager. Just before doing so, his paperwork and background information for the FBI had been properly assessed, submitted and–not surprisingly enough–received and acknowledged. A measure to ensure his visit with Quantico went off without so much as a hiccup. 

Though really, one could never foresee what sorts of things may arise at place like the _FBI Training Headquarters...or_ , as Erik had taken to referring it by a code name–the "captured mutant facility." There was just no telling how he would react–or Raven, if he allowed her anywhere near the building itself. 

Erik grumbled. 

He still hadn't warmed up to the notion that he was planning a visit to a man who, like himself, possessed a genetic mutation that had given him _superhuman_ abilities–or _gifts_ , as Erik had heard them called here and there. He knew the general human populous _hated_ mutants, simply because they either weren't one themselves _or_ we're downright fearful of their "freakish" existence on the whole. It was just _their way_ –the humans, that is. To hate, to admonish, to terrorize and oppress. 

The anger the magnetic Lieutenant held in his heart for humankind had grown exponentially as he had grown up, and it continued on to this very day. _But_.

Lehnsherr stopped caring for humanity's opinions right about the time his _mutation_ had allowed himself the breathable freedom from tyranny; a daring escape from psychosis and savage death at such a young age because he was _a freak_. Erik had accepted his dealt hand in those darkest of days.

Yet, oftentimes Lehnsherr wondered if Adolf Hitler was himself, a mutant. 

Things would have been much clearer–or much worse–if that sort of truth were ever revealed. 

As it was. 

Erik drove the short distance from the precinct to his and Raven's apartment, roughly two miles of open road away. His 1960 Lincoln Continental was a smooth ride, quiet and always kept running beautifully. It's jet-black paint reflected the world as it passed him by–or as he soared alongside of it, as he was never certain of the distinction there–and as Erik sat on its cold leather seat, he shook his head and contemplated amongst the silence. 

About his life had he _not_ escaped the death camps–the gas that could have left him breathless. 

About his parents who he had been made aware of their deaths nearly two years before his ultimate, well-rehearsed breakout. 

About his younger sister, whom he had watched starve to death. 

About the memories of the American solider he had met ten miles outside of that bottom ring of hell. How those kind, country eyes were the warmest Erik had ever seen. _But no, Erik couldn't actually trust this man, could he? Should he?_

Stopping the fluid rush of his minds recollections before they were able to spin any further from his tight grasp, Erik shook his head from one side to the next. Pressing his foot against the worn rubber of his acceleration pedal as the light switched from a bright Christmas-red to a similar holiday green, Lehnsherr thought back to this Xavier person–and yawned. Erik _was_ mentally drained, but had mounds of investigatory work ahead of him, and so, he drove himself awake as he drove himself home.

The Lincoln parked, his work-satchel–a flat-onyx leathered gift from Raven last year–under arm, Erik unlocked the front door to the shared domicile and made his way inside. It smelled of hot turkey breasts and boiling gravy. He could have fallen onto the couch and fell asleep with such a wave of scents flooding him, but did nothing of the like. Those days of laziness were for his twilight years, if ever.

Erik slipped his winter coat off, hung it on the rack spot designated his own and then eased two arms out of the wool blazer he had been wearing all day. It reeked of stale coffee and burnt cigarettes. A combination Erik _and_ Raven had become long ago accustomed to. They were the usual emanations from being cooped up inside of an office full of detectives... all day.

Cooped up with himself, no less.

That made thinking of upcoming his three day road trip all the more enticing. No Clipper, no Logan or McCoy. None of them for three solid days.

Though admittedly, that was more of Raven's complaint than Erik's. After all, she was the one outside _in_ the jungle of desks that were back to back with one another. At least Erik had his comfy little office. _Little_ being the operative word.

Erik never had a reply for Raven's gripes, but rather let her exasperate herself and waited them out. Like all things, emotions would fade, only to be replaced by what was occupying their present time and place. Which currently, was them. Together. Alone. In their apartment.

With Learman's case files and bottle of white wine. _White_. 

Erik changed to comfortably imitate Raven's relaxed attire: gray sweatpants, loose-fitting long-sleeved cotton top and the thickest pair of white-cotton socks he could find. The drive home had all but frozen his pinky toes on both feet; Erik made a mental note to purchase new work shoes the next chance he found himself at the local shopping center.

His thoughts were interrupted as Raven lent herself to the edge of their bedroom door–although her body was a navy-blue now, she chose not to be nude on account of the wintry climate. "I hope you're hungry, Erik?" It was a question-statement met with a wink and a smirk. It wasn't often Raven cooked full-course meals for him, mainly because he was seldom home at a reasonable hour, but he appreciated it whenever he fully could.

"Starved." A smile came as his closing response, two toned, lean legs slipping into the soft fabric of his prized sweats. Raven puffed up her scaled, blue cheeks, smiling, then "good, because I was hoping we could eat before diving headfirst into the mutant torture case...?" Another question-statement, another nod from him.

They ate in relative silence, saving their words and questions and reservations and concerns for _after_ the food was done with. Their daily routines were reminders enough that they needed to recognize not only the evils in this world, but the normalcy their lives siphoned from the peace and quiet even more so. History had a nasty tendency to repeat itself, and if neither he nor she took the time to respect the simplistic or observe the calmness _ever_ present there, between them, things could quickly spin on their axis.

Very easily, both Raven and Erik could lose themselves in the prejudices and hatred of the world. It was a known fact that ill will and misery desired the company of the uplifted and naturally satisfied–despite what those other cliches might say. So Erik and Raven spent whatever time they had together in their modest apartment reconnecting and sharing that time with one another.

It was _their_ way.

Dinner included in such a ritual, though not always as lavish as this particular night had been, Erik found respite when he was with her. Raven found comfort and acceptance when beside him. They were unique and yet so alike, it was difficult to tell who had found whom, in the grand scheme of things. _But_. 

"Leave the dishes, I'll handle them. Let's get started on this; I need your eyes and any additional input, or what have you, so that we can really begin to pick this monster apart. Ready?" Erik sat down onto the plush tan carpet, his ankles crossing as the base of his spine touched against the front of their patterned couch. He tapped the space beside him and let rise to one eyebrow, enticing her almost joking-like, and yet not, all at the same time.

Raven laugh-sighed, but crouched down and slid one arm around the base of Erik's back, running her fingers up then down in an affectionate pattern. A familiar pattern. She reveled in the hard muscle that lain just below the soft comforts of his white shirt, shivered lightly thinking of just how _goddamned_ attracted she was to this man.

Even still, it was a routine gesture–welcomed–but nevertheless usual in their time spent together.

They had been doing this for what felt like ten years now, when in reality, Erik and Raven had been together for only ten months. It was their compliments to one another that had solidified and moved their relationship forward and onward; constantly being in tune with the other also helped in their pairing becoming an immediate success.

Few had questioned the nature of their relationship, though many had expected it upon her transfer to working as a detective in Lehnsherr's unstoppable squadron. None really knew any more than what they had seen in the office _or_ during last years Halloween party. The one and _only_ social event Erik had ever attended since being named their Lieutenant. Friends simply weren't his style, never had been. But Raven had insisted, and truth be told, he had more fun than he let on.

Erik focused on the present–the folders clutched within his steady hands.

"Think Learman will be pissed when he finds out we took lead on _his_ open _serial?_ I mean, it's not often cases this size fall into our hands, Erik." Raven was subtly weaving both of her hands through the fire-red waves of hair as she questioned him, her yellow-colored eyes focused on the series of documents now laying atop Erik's thighs. Erik nodded but said nothing, instead caught himself watching her, always _stunned_ by her mutation, before, "I doubt he'll find out just how far of a headway I've made any time soon, let alone any progress we make tonight. That being said, I really don't give a fuck. Clip is a kiss-ass whiner who talks too much and thinks too little. He _should_ have come to me sooner than he did with this–but chose to gather his information and _actually_ –get this–go out solo and question local neighborhoods himself. _But_ I'm jumping ahead. Let's focus on this file- _Erik held Jubilation Lee's Case #0006 folder up and waved it in front of Raven's curious, xanthic eyes_ -tonight before I get too aggravated over Learman, _again_...yes?"

Erik's question-statement went over as he had hoped.

Raven smiled and reached–palms up–for the folder. "Let's have a look..." she mouthed, pretzeling her legs one under the other and placing the file in the scoop of her center.

"Who's this victim in the grand scheme of things? First or last known?" Raven inquired before opening the folder, looking directly into Erik's green eyes. A last-ditch effort of romance before delving into the horrors of societies injustices.

"She was the first victim– _last_ to be found. Her name was Jubilation Lee, she was only-" Raven's face nearly morphed from her natural dark blue to the pale bright-white of a full moon, her hand having risen up sharply to cut Erik off. "...fifteen? She was fifteen, California native, mutant, Chinese-American?"

Erik's head slagged backwards as she rambled off fact for fact of the poor dead girl. "Y... _eat_. How did you know?" He waited, watching her intently. Worry–an emotion Erik wasn't entirely familiar with, nor was he comfortable with its presence for _any_ length of time–crept up through the hallow of his bones.

Raven didn't move–couldn't move–and then. "You're going to see Charles Xavier, aren't you?" She stood after asking Erik an _impossible_ question, avoiding his piercing glares and semi-frightened gaped mouth. Raven paced, her feet shuffling soundlessly atop the thick carpet, her toes digging in, lifting out, digging in again-then a snap.

"Raven!" Erik was calling out to her, having stood up a few minutes ago now. His hands were waving in front of her face before, "Erik, please sit down, I-I have something I need to tell you."

Erik's eyes shifted rapidly from left to right, wholly unsure and completely uncertain of anything he thought he had known. At least when it came to her, _his Raven. 'Stop being so dramatic, Lehnsherr.'_ Erik inwardly said, reigning his thoughts back to him. Get the facts, go from there. "Okay? _You're_ not really the mutant killer are you?" a tentatively asked inquiry, but one laced with a hint of _did I really just ask that aloud?_

Erik resumed his seated position–this time _on_ the couch rather than in front of it. Things were much more serious currently than they had been merely five minutes earlier. Somehow resting on the carpet wasn't justifiably _adult_ enough for this type of conversation. _Whatever type it actually was turning into._

"No, Erik, no, it's definitely _not_ me." Raven pinched the bridge of her nose, the scales from her fingertips digging into the soft skin surrounding her eyes. Then continued on. "But... _-a forced sigh-_ you see, Erik, Charles Xavier is, well, _was_ , my...my brother. _Half_ , well, not even that, but still, brother nonetheless." Raven's chest all but deflated as she finally spat out a secret Erik hadn't known she had kept from him. 

All this time.

He didn't know what to say– _was there anything to say?_ –and settled on a silent shrug.

It was her time for worry now. "Say something, please. Erik?" Raven moved closer to him but chose not to sit down. Her hands were shaking. Scared, she was so scared he would leave her over the reveal of such an ugly secret; on that had emerged from within a lost, forgotten closet. The skeletal remains corroded with dust and heavy regret. 

Erik joined his hands, fingers now encased together, and moved them so that they were cupped against the back of his head. He felt his hair, slightly rigid from the hot-cold weather he had experienced all day, and coughed lightly.

"I... Really, Raven I don't even know what you're expecting me to say. Do we discuss the case and your murderous _half-not really, well, maybe_ -brother or do we talk about why you haven't told me that he even existed?" Incredulity masked his true emotions, simply because he wouldn't allow himself to process those thoughts _of her_ while still around her.

"Erik. I didn't _think_ this would... _he_...I haven't even spoken to him since he... went away. I never expected to hear his name again, honestly. It just, everything-the case just _disappeared_ because he's a mutant and no one wanted _anyone_ or any one precinct to know what the FBI were...doing whatever it is they're doing with him." The slight hesitation in her voice as she closed the sentence gave it all away for Erik: Raven still cared deeply for this Charles Xavier, but had chosen to negate his very existence to spare even the smallest shred of happiness for her own life.

A defense mechanism.

One Erik knew all too well.

Erik watched her for a moment: Raven's pace was now doubled what it was, her amber eyes running frantic in their sockets. He could just imagine the horror of arrest and conviction, of the trial and sentencing she must have gone through. Though, _had she even been a part of it?_

And then it struck him just as his thought-question about her had ended in his mind, "there was never any official trial and subsequent conviction, was there?"

Raven stopped short of their staircase and turned to look at him. Shaking her head, "no, there wasn't." The pacing resumed before Erik knew what he had to do.

He needed to calm her down before things spun wildly out of their control. "Easy, easy Raven. Let's just...talk about it? If you ca-... _can_ you talk about him to me now? Did he-did he murder Jubilation?" Erik's mouth had wandered away from all thoughts of restraint, the latter part of his questioning having not meant to be said. At least not so soon into this grandiose reveal.

She finally sat–on a single cushioned square, the opposite end of where Erik had only just been seated. "Yes...yes I can-I _want_ to talk about him with you. Always have, I suppose, but never _could_...at least not until you-. But _now_ you know why. And _**no**_ he did _not_ kill that poor, poor girl. I want you, _no_ , Erik I **need** you to believe that, right now."

Raven sat cross-legged, sunlight-eyes wide and expectant. Erik looked down, sensed the metal that surrounded him from every corner of their little place. The knobs, locks, keys, handles, framing, bolts, screws, nails, light fixtures, money-"Erik?" Raven prodded, one of her hands having slipped on top of his knee as he had been wholly removed from the current plane of existence he was always a part of.

"I...I believe _you_ , Raven, but I never truly suspected Charles to have been _the serial_. Five more killings had happened _after_ his containment. Obviously, the true murderer remains unhindered and uncaught, but–and I ask this as your boss, not your lover right now– _Why_ had Charles been there- _at_ the scene? Raven, he-Charles was dripping-wet with Jubilation's blood, look– _all_ of it is in those files we were about to go over."

Moving back down to the floor, Erik flipped Lee's folder open and spread the seven images from the scene and the young girls body as it had been found. "Here, look- _read this_ , Raven–" Erik placed Clipper's _final_ report in her hands– **not** the initial arresting officer's scratchings. She paused to stare at him, in what Erik had assumed was a measure to gather herself, before zeroing in on the mountains of found and documented information.

Erik ran two steady hands through his hair–exasperated that somehow, longing for the truth had been met with tidal waves of fatigue. But much was left to be done, now that he had been made privy to such a secret. Such was _her_ secret, though having now become one of his own.

Yet, discovered earlier that day–when back at the precinct and sorting more thoroughly through Learman's reports–that Charles hadn't appeared as innocent as Erik had originally assumed. Or as Raven blindly believed. That being said, Erik still wasn't entirely sold on either side. Neither the broken-hearted sister's conviction, nor Charles' seemingly guilty murmurings–even with such solid evidence–had swayed him fully.

And considering the secret she had kept from him all this time, Erik was even less sure of what he knew than he was twenty minutes prior. 

Now though, Erik deemed it best to share all he knew from Learman's detailed findings. Whether Raven was ready to hear those truths- _perhaps she had known of them already?_ -Erik couldn't concern himself. She simply _needed_ to know. To hear it all.

"Raven...a weapon was _in_ Charles' hand when police had arrived. He was frantic–appeared nearly immobilized from the entire ordeal. Raven...he–Charles said only _one_ thing, and I quote this verbatim, _"it was all my fault."_ How could they have come to believe _anyone_ would be more guilty than the man who had hinted towards his involvement to those horrified cops?" Erik's eyes lost hers then, as she silently absorbed the new information. Well, what Erik had hoped was new.

Something inside–something he had trusted as a cop and as a Lieutenant all these years–was screaming for him to continue on, to keep telling her everything. To drive it home.

So he did just that. Emotions laid to the side, Erik spoke nothing but the truth. 

Erik pointed to select excerpts of Learman's report–parts that recounted the officer who had first shown onto the scene–a rookie, as fate would see fit. "Do you see now? The police _had_ to have thought Charles was their guy. There was blood _all_ over him, the stained weapon–of which hasn't even been described in full, nor pictured–that was used in killing Lee, was _in Xavier's hands_ , but what's worse? Charles all but confessed to guilt by rambling into the fresh ears of beat cops. It _wasn't_ just a regular day anymore, not after they had seen that."

A long, exhaled puff of discontent echoed, the living room now feeling smaller than the insides of a rusted tin can. Neither had known which of the two had done it–made that shaken-breath of sound. _But._

Raven didn't–couldn't–allow the evidence to speak for what she knew was the truth. "Erik, I am _telling_ you. I know **exactly** why my brother was at her apartment. And I _would have_ spoken or testified in his defense, had there been a goddamn trial! But the news reported a murder–a _gruesome_ murder–and nothing more. They swept it under the lid faster than fuck! Because he's a **mutant**. Because that alone would create panic or instability amongst the ranks that had wanted to avoid a global-wide genetic war. Be-because they **knew** they would lose. It...wasn't and _still_ isn't fair." 

Sadness paraded into the room then, filling the air with heavy waves of burnt-out, ashen emotion. Raven was reeling, Erik was stumbling, both breathless to understand.

He did the best he could.

"I'm going to see him on Wednesday morning. Tomorrow night, you and I are driving down there. But in the meantime, let's focus on what _we_ know and go from there. Raven... _Raven_ listen to me. I believe you. I _will_ believe you more so after meeting Xavier. I never once thought of this "29-year old telepath from England, wealthy, educator– _telepath_ " was _ever_ a monster–let alone _the_ monster in this disgusting tale. But I need **him** to tell me. I've listened to you, but I will also listen to the details and whatever his own words may be, before moving on to the next step of this investigation. And if I find– _if_ , I find–he's being held for no other reason than his mutation, then I promise you–I _**promise** you_ –I will personally see to it that he is released from the FBI's unsanctioned hole."

Erik waited and watched her in silence. He had meant every word.

Raven had known it the moment he had said all of them–the truth.

"Oh Erik, I know. I'm... this has been the worst thing to have ever happened to me–losing Charles like I did. Do you know... I haven't spoken to him _once_ since his arrest? They wouldn't let me–not because I'm a cop _but_ because I'm his sister. They long suspected I might have been a mutant as well, but once they learned the truth of my adoption, they just cut me out. God, Erik... it's been a nightmare. A crippling _goddamn_ nightmare." She stopped, wiping away the few stray tears that had fallen from her sad eyes.

Erik didn't _want_ to, but couldn't refrain from it a moment longer: "How were you able to keep Charles'-...such an important thing from me all this time?" It was the first time he had _ever_ sounded hurt since they had began their life together. Raven's stomach twisted with regret.

"I–I don't know. After that first 8 or so months, I just wanted to forget. I wanted to pretend I was born and raised as Raven Darkholme my entire life and not.... But then I met you– _really_ met you, and everything began to change. I knew, deep down, I would never see Charles again, Erik, I _felt_ it. As though he were- _her breath hitched, teeth chattering together before,_ -already dead. Everyday, every single day I've thought of him–even now–but I can't-I can't do anything to help him. He _saved_ my life and no matter how hard I've tried–and you wouldn't believe just how much–I can't repay that. Do you know...what that feels... like?"

Raven was sobbing now, her blue hands striped with falling lines of tears. Erik shifted so that he was now up against her side, a arm wrapped around her shoulders. "Hey, hey calm down, I'm here with you. We're going to figure it out." Erik silenced then; comforting the melancholy was never something of a strong suit for him, but his attempt at it was for her sake.

She laid into him, letting his warmth wash over her as though she were blanketed by rays of the setting sun. "Thank you," she whispered, her lips close to his neck, navy-blue hands laying flat against the rise and fall of his chest. She felt as his skin rippled in response–the heat of her breath brushed against a cooled exposed patch of skin, eliciting just the sort of reaction they both knew very well. Reactions that could lead to things _other_ than work related–but now was certainly _not_ the opportune time.

Erik didn't, nor would he ever, take advantage of Raven. _His Raven._

That and curiosity was nipping at his heels like fevered devils longing for a gateway out hell.

He cleared his throat. "Raven... you mentioned Charles as having _saved_ you. Might I ask from what?" And there it was. Easy, said with just the right amount of confidence and a pinch of intrigue. It was a good way to reopen conversation–and the only way to avoid discussing things wholly out of Raven's control.

She pulled herself up and away from his center, pushing away what hair had fallen into her line of sight from two swollen, blood-shot eyes. Raven hadn't been crying _that_ long, but it was enough for her to feel less than her normal self. _And_ it involved Charles. A man, no, _the_ man she had counted as the sole reason for her surviving as long as she had.

The scarlet-haried shifter looked down at both of their hands, joined and comfortable–familiar together. With all she had and all she held inside of herself, now was the time to promulgate. The moment was here, the time to share her life with this man, to stop running- _hiding_ from it. Time enough for all skeletons to be laid to rest; a final exposé that would leave nothing more to question. So, rest in peace, all ye weary, be gone and gone and away.

A pause, _before_.

"There's a reason you didn't know who I was before becoming a cop, as I am sure– _by now_ –you've figured out. But it goes much deeper than what Charles has been imprisoned with for the last twenty months of his incarceration. Yes, Erik, he did save me. In every way a child-mutant _could_ be saved, when considering what we've had to contend with. I know though, what you had to endure as a child- _Erik's eyes flashed wide then, and uncontrollably clouded over as he remembered Nazi Germany_ -was much greater, and much worse than my own upbringing, but still. My early childhood... it wasn't as Norman Rockwell as one might guess. Quite the opposite, that is. _Until_ Charles found me."

A stop then, as Raven stretched her legs out in front of a tightly wound body. Stress was bubbling in her veins now, unsteady and jagged and torn; waves of nausea from memories _before_ Charles, were ripping her strength away by the second. But _no_ , she was much greater than that person now. Clearly, she was recovered and whole. Yet...was she really.

Charles had, at first, been the one to tend to that, but now Erik had done almost the same in an absence of the telepath's physical presence.

But _oh_ , how she longed for it.

The mental warmth that felt as though a fireplace were constantly ignited in the back of her mind, illuminating her path so that she may never find herself wandering, lost. A safe house built for her by him, all inside of that precious mind that never quit–on her, on life. But it's ...she's been void of both Charles _and_ his mentally-calming ubiquity for the better part of two years now, having never fully felt the same since his leaving.

His being _taken_ from her. From their lives. Away from everything they had worked so hard to construct.

Peace, understanding, companionship– _love_. 

Now it was her time to share those things with the second man she had ever felt so intertwined with, so complete.

Raven swallowed, eyes tightening for a moment before they reopened–flashing a brilliant yellow. And then she went with it. The memories, acting as though they were magic carpets of plush velvet manifested, enticing her to simply, _take the ride_ and follow the dusty roads of her past. It was strange, how both rage and serenity were married with her thoughts of the past–of Charles.

 _But_. 

The mysterious blue mutant thought it best to begin at the beginning, for Erik's sake, and for her own.

She tapped lightly against his arm and smiled, expression stiff as though one might have painted her features as though she were a marble statuesque. "Get comfortable, Lt.. This is going to be a long night." Silent wisps of feigned laughter escaped her two lips–those being a lighter shade of blue than the rest of her body.

Erik laid flush against the inflated backing of their living room's couch. The fabric felt warm against the muscles of his back, reassuring. It was as though it–that _thing_ , a couch–had come alive to hold him, to hold her, as the truths of souls were given permit to rise. To avoid judgement but receive clarity. Understanding, companionship, peace and...love.

"I'm with you, Raven." It was a simple testament but one he had meant as though he had welded his name into iron with it. _He could, if it meant being there to protect her._

She smiled lightly, then nodded her gratitude.

"I was eight years old when I met Charles Xavier. I was homeless, hungry and ashamed. I was a thief and a bad-mouthed kid who fought to keep that with which I had taken from others. I had no parents, no siblings–still don't, thank you very much. I was alone, and ...very blue. Always blue. I migrated from here to there, slept beneath underpasses and burned bridges I had dared to cross. I tried to bleach my skin, cut the scales and dye my hair. I couldn't, because as you know, my exterior is thicker than normal–a fact tougher than I was capable of handling at the time."

A respite then, as she padded her fingertips against the patch of a lighter blue on her left arm, just beneath the elbow. Erik asked with his eyes, Raven nodded in shameful admittance. The bleach.

"So, I had made my way from New York City–where I was well-fed but cold and close to death nearly every day. Figured it wasn't worth the risk–food, that is. I hitched a ride, any really–train, bus, car, you name it–to get as far away from those bright city lights as I was able. Sure, they were blinding and alluring to an eight year old, but confusion was quick to set in at that age. Well anyway, I ended up at a pub not three miles out from the Xavier's mansion, and it was then I heard some of the locals describe the _wealthy Xavier's_ and how money seemed of no consequence to the royal-like family. Even the name itself–it rang in my ears as though someone had dangled loose change in their deep pockets, almost baiting me. I was salivating at the prospect. Though, I had only heard enough to get a baring and before I was kicked out for being nothing more than a stupid kid squatting in their establishment, I allowed myself a final mission in finding the Xavier family home...and ripping them off."

Erik watched as she went on, knowing she was leaving out the gritty _real_ details–emotions that she must had felt while dealing with such troublesome predicaments at _that_ age. Squabbles and fights, harsh words and bad weather, tolerated without so much as a canopy to call her own. It was a sadness, really, a sadness he had wanted her to share, in hopes of lessening the burdens of those memories. But hadn't the heart to stop her. No, Erik would never stop Raven, especially now. 

He refocused.

"I walked the three miles–which was more like seven–until I finally arrived at the gate to what I knew had to be Xavier's grounds. It was...Erik, I had never, _never_ seen anything like it. The entrance itself was bigger than any wrought-iron structure I'd seen in the past. A freshly painted black, I stood there as the scent drifted into me. I can still remember it–that heavy lacquer was almost palpable, and motionless, I observed it–wonderment and terror blazing at my bones. I felt intimidated but enthralled as I waited on myself to _move_ , to do something. And then, Erik, I did. I just...did somehow. I climbed the long bars of that gate and slid down the other side, changing the color of my skin to a midnight, nearly liquid-like onyx, in hopes of blending in with unlit parts of their expansive green. And it _worked_. No one had seen me, or if they had, nothing was done. Perhaps because I was a child–but, _no_ , that wasn't possible, because I was an unnatural color that the world hadn't ever produced before. It would have been frightening for someone to have seen a young girl–a _thing_ –that was..."

Raven gulped, wiping one hand across her forehead, brushing away two beads of sweat that had sprung there. Erik laid his arm over the top of the nearest couch cushion–the one just behind her slumped back–and lightly trailed nonsensical meanderings atop her shoulders. A method to calm her.

"I made it to _one_ of the entrances after that, Lord knows how many there really are–even I don't know, and I lived there for nearly twenty-one years. God, my hands were shaking worse than I had ever felt; I didn't know _why_ I was so scared, but that place felt different, _better_ than anything I had knocked over in the past. I wanted it all–wanted to take it all and live like they did, or how I thought they did from the outside looking in. And I went for it. I gave it my all. I rounded the manor twice before choosing a specific window to break in through. Most were locked–I would come to find that out after I had lived there a while, and proceeded to promptly go around locking the ones that weren't–but the one initially chosen wasn't. It seemed sign enough to keep going. So within a few minutes, I found myself standing in a darkened library of sorts. I mean, a _library_ Erik, who just _has_ a library in their home? Anyway, I was shocked and hadn't realized I was back to my navy-colored self, but then I heard the sound of footsteps–a child's, light and seemingly not fraught with anger from an intruder. I-"

She stopped, eyes glistening over with a fresh sheen of teary lubricant. The closer Raven was getting to talking of Charles, the harder and heavier her heart began to feel. "If you need to stop for a bit, it's okay," Erik spoke, his voice calm and soothing. One of his hands was wrapped in the thick red of her hair, fingers touched lightly to her scalp; she was warm and hot and close to him, and telling her _who_ she really was.

Erik knew he would wait however long it might take; truth and trust were partners in the best of times, and the worst of times, and now was a perfect example. 

He once compared her to a tiger, saying something about not covering up _their_ stripes, for all the beauty and power they exuded. She was _that_ but more, so very much more to him.

She believed him. She believed him every day since.

"No, it's okay. I'm just...sad now, when I think of him. Of meeting him. Of everything with him. But, I-you need to know. And more than that, I _want you to know_." Raven's eyes were on Erik's, strong and holding and ready to give more.

She went on.

"So by the time I heard that little person getting closer to me, I nervously scanned the room for images, pictures, anything framed I could have easily assimilated into. And so I did. A man–middle-aged and average height, dark hair but crystal blue eyes. He had a woman by his left arm, a young son in his lap. They seemed happy for such a stiff, stuffy portrait. It was no matter to me though, as I merely used it as a ruse to survive, unharmed and uncaught. And then I waited. I waited and waited until a creak sounded out, filling the stale air with a resonance that _oozed_ rich but sordidly loveless. But then I saw this young boy- _Raven's eyes drew downward, tears coming easy now_ -with the same blue eyes I was currently borrowing. He looked right at me, remarkable and stunned but...peacefully still. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at me, as though I were something to be in awe of–or rather, the person I had shaped myself into. I knew that man was important to this young, happy– _but sad_ –boy, and I decided to use it against him. Even though, honestly, by that point my initial sights on stealing had all but left me. Two minutes in _his_ world, and I had already begun to change. Then... _there it was_. I'll never forget what he said to me, or rather _how_ he said it to me...."

Erik was _with_ her, empathizing alongside those vivid emotions now. _'Goddamn this day. Who the hell am I, anymore?'_

Raven hadn't stopped. 

"He walked closer to me, one hand reached out to touch my–now very large and very adult male–hand. He squeezed it, unaware of how the panic in that moment must have been dripping out of me. Or, _completely aware_. But...he looked up at me and half-smiled, his eyes–Erik, they were so sad. And then he spoke aloud, "Dad?" and I nearly broke apart at the hurt that was living there. I almost shifted back, not knowing or caring what might become of me for such a blatant reveal. That feeling hadn't lasted tough, I came to find, as the boy dropped my hand as quick as he had taken it. He moved away and darkened his eyes in telling anger. Then I heard a voice _in my head_ and I knew, somehow _knew_ it was him. "You're not him. He's dead. Who **are you?** " It was... the single most frightening moment of my entire life. No fears of hunger, humanity or homelessness had ever made me feel that way. I... _stupidly_ , I made to speak, unchanging, still acting as though I were his father. What a mistake I thought I had made, before.. before he took me by the hand again and whispered into my mind for a second time. He said... and this was the moment I felt my life changing for good–"you're safe here now, but please, _please_. My father died last year and I would best appreciate if you could show me who you truly are, as there is nothing to fear in me. You can stay here, with me. Raven, you can be home here, now, forever. I won't hurt you." Erik, I knew it then. Just _understood_ it. So completely, so wonderfully, I had come to realize this new person was willing to show me everything I hadn't yet experienced, if only I took that leap and revealed who I _really_ was."

A pause, her throating drying out from speaking so long and so quickly. Her heart raced and her voice cracked, so tied up in the stories she hadn't thought of in an inexcusable amount of time.

Erik's eyes were alight, "did you shift back then? Or did you wait a little longer?" Knowing fully well Charles had won Raven almost the exact same way he had done not a year earlier. Only Erik hadn't known he was saving anyone–least not from their past.

A quiet nod. "I did. I watched as my body changed from this tall, handsome man, to a short navy-blue girl again. My red hair burning a bright spot in the mirror that was placed just beside me. I watched as he smiled, his little hand hanging out there for me to shake. He laughed, and I remember that laugh, before, "I'm Charles, Charles Xavier. I'm a telepath–I can read minds. Are you hungry? Come, let's go to the kitchen..." I followed him, my hand shaking as he held on tight. I was more afraid but happier inside than I had ever realized a person could be. We-it felt as though we were racing through the those long, _long_ hallways, hair blown askew by the high ceilings' breeze, smiles wide and carefree and open. Then– _the kitchen._ I had never–and _have never_ seen another like it. Quietly then, he made me a sandwich, and I drank chocolate milk and he told me all the things _he_ could do, and asked me all of the things _I_ was capable of. He asked me to stay, and I told him I shouldn't. He said he trusted me, that I wouldn't steal anymore–that I _didn't have to anymore._ That things were going to be okay, from then until forever ..."

Raven's words were lost in her mind, throat swollen shut with the wash of _miss him._

Erik's hand never stopped in its attentiveness towards her, having long since created a up-down rhythm that was calming to the both of them–unbeknownst but welcome nevertheless.

She smiled at him as she wound and unwound her fingers within and without themselves. Raven nodded, "I stayed. I watched as he changed his mother's mind, his step-brother's and step-father's–who were worse than the scum I had grown up with on the streets, though that's a conversation for another time. The maids, the cooks, the landscapers, the service workers, the... _everyone_. He had to alter _every single one of their_ minds to fit me into his life. _Me_ , Erik. The girl who had broken into his home, imitated his dead father and ate half of the kitchen's food that first night. And then...a. A story was created. I wasn't his _real_ sister, you see, but the newly adopted daughter. Raven Darkholme from West Pennsylvania, no family to speak of–orphaned. It was complete awe to me, Erik. I was in _awe_ of what Charles could do–and did _do for me_ –considering his young age. His strength and control was ...–I didn't understand how he could have been so capable and refined. But as time passed he would come to show me. It wasn't without pain or effect on him–physically that is–and that downright scared me. We were inseparable from the start, and some days–those early ones–I would find it was traumatizing on him. It wasn't often but when it happened, I didn't...I wasn't sure of how to help him. I could hear his screams during the night sometimes, or felt as he broke into _my_ nightmares only to replace them with crisp autumn days–leaves orange and golden and brown and red. He-Charles took away my pain, slowly, slowly replacing it with happiness, with wholeness. Every fear of mine he rationalized, explained why it wasn't something he'd ever _let_ happen to me. He was...he became...Charles became...."

A flood of flaming-hot tears came in a rush, Raven, unable to say anything more.

Erik's searching eyes traced around their apartment, finding their tissue box– _made of metal_ –and willed it to him. They both stared on dizzily as it floated silently through the air, as though an invisible thing were holding it up, sailing it effortlessly. Tissue in hand, Erik dabbed her eyes, underneath them, then lifted her face, two palms holding tear-stricken navy flesh. _Beautiful_. He was the only thing in her view.

"He saved you." Erik was respectful and knew it, knew all it then.

There was no way, _no way_ , Charles Xavier had killed Jubilation Lee.

________________________________________

Be that as it _may_.

Erik, ever the detective, ever the man searching for fault in most humans–and mutants–needed to find reason behind the epiphany on Raven's long-lost _not-really_ -brother. It was his drive, and not something he could simply wish away on account of iron-clad conviction and a person's heartfelt recollective memory.

But therein lie his problem: Erik _believed_ Raven. With all his sense and all of his many years survived, Erik knew she wasn't lying about a single detail. Not that she ever would. But, still. Not from the dust-laden library that held Charles Xavier's dead father's picture, or the books that would one day become the telepaths's lifelines- _Erik had read that Xavier was highly educated, thus deducing his acclimation with texts and the like_ -to the sandwich he had made for a yet, unadjusted young Raven.

His broken-hearted mate had told him everything that meant anything to her, and it was only a description of her and Charles' meeting–and the few months before and after that time. Erik wasn't even sure what had come after her being an adoptee or his _kind-of_ sister. It _was_ all so interesting, so enlightening, but he needed to know what happened more recently–or rather, twenty-months ago–to justify this foreign feeling of absolute blindness and faith. 

Erik's trust in her word versus his belief in the evidence, left him feeling as though he were at a crossroads with himself.

"Two paths diverged into the woods..." he mumbled, unaware that he had quoted Robert Frost aloud.

Raven looked up and into his eyes– _really_ into them–"you're quoting poetry now? He _always_ recited lines when he felt any soaring emotions. Or to bug me." The end of her sentence was met with a slight laugh, light and ever so shy.

It felt as though Erik were meeting her all over again.

"Erik, I'm ...sorry. I'm so sorry I never told you anything. You deserved to have this truth, I just doubted my resolve. Doubted the future. My own sanity–and for that...I hope you understand." Raven saw the absolution in Erik's eyes as her apology was met with his ever-present open arms. _Love_. 

The magnetic man's head dipped, and as he kissed her lapis-like knuckles, he knew he could do nothing but move past such a burden of a secret. One kept from him for reasons valid enough to leave all other doubts to the wayside. 

_But_. 

_'Define your trails, define her faith in Charles. Find your answers, find your questions.'_ Erik delved back into it head on, when- _there_ -haunting sounds of collision were looming off in the distance of his mind. He wasn't sure how this would go from here on out. Raven's heart so attached, so close, yet so far from those days she had only just waded through on his behalf. For him _and_ Charles.

Erik needed it. Needed the information to help her, to help Charles, to free _his_ own mind from this newfound revelatory state. And so he did.

"Raven, tell me about the day your brother was arrested. You mentioned how ...how you _knew_ why he was in Jubilee's apartment. What did you mean by that?"

Erik watched as Raven's eyes closed, opened, closed again then flashed wide, pupils blown out as those thoughts–the worst moments of her life–came rushing back. Of that, Erik had little doubt. " _Why_ would he have been there? How did he know Lee? _Did_ he even know her prior?" Erik pressed on. There was no going back. To save Charles, to _really_ save him, Erik wouldn't, and couldn't, accept anything less than the truths revealed–whatever they may be.

Raven nodded, cleared her throat.

"Xavier was in the midst of opening a school at our manor– _Xavier's School for Gifted Children_ –and recruitment involved his telepathy in the search for fellow mutants. He... he had this massive technological _thing_ built to assist in doing such statewide and nationwide scours. I was going to help him as best I was able, but being a shapeshifter, I couldn't exactly point him to the nearest "genetic anomaly." It was tough, watching him put himself through such rigorous exercises, but in the end, all of their work had _finally_ resulted in one–a found mutant. _That_ was Jubilation Lee. I was, well I was so happy it had worked, but he-something wasn't right with her, he had said. That–only that and nothing more. To me. Imagine my surprise when he took off in a hurry, _not_ requesting me to be there. Only later for me to hear on the news what had apparently happened...I had to deduce Charles was the suspected killer too. I was horrified, Erik..."

She stopped, her mouth clamping shut.

It was now. _Now_ , was happening and Erik couldn't take a moment more of silence or restraint.

"Raven, honey please. What happened?" Erik licked at his lips, his hand moving to cover them. His own body felt as though it were too big for his own skin, a sense of explosive bubbling just beneath his iron-like surface. He was shaking, slowly, but noticeably just the same.

"He screamed when he located her–I was there at the time–and then disengaged _Cerebro_ –that's what he called it–and took off, racing back into the mansion. I followed him until he made it to the garage, and by then he was too panicked to speak coherently enough. Erik, I had _never_ seen Charles like that before, _**never**_. It was as if someone, or something had driven a knife into his mind, carving at his walls–beckoning him to fight back. I...I had no idea who or what or _how_ that was even possible, because _Cerebro_ was so new."

Erik coughed, "did anyone help Charles design–or make this... _Cerebro_? You mentioned "all of their work had resulted in finding Jubilation. Who was "their?" He watched as Raven nodded an answer, a silent " _yes_ ," before Erik continued. "Was it Charles' intention to locate mutants and bring them–without question or their own free will–to his school? Or was it an "open enrollment" format of admission?" Erik couldn't mask his tone–the serious, snake-like venom that was waiting there, pooled by the edge of his mouth just ready to snare at the smoking-gun fact that would give it all away.

Raven noticed. "Erik, I told you he's **innocent** , and if knowing you–and _working_ for you–has meant _anything_ , I know, deep down, that you believe me. Why are you fighting this-why are you fighting _me?_ " She was angered, and slightly aghast by his sudden shift in attitude.

He... Erik could either share his plight or make this situation a lot worse.

Swallowing his pride, he said the one thing he had never intended on saying. _Or feeling_. 

"Raven, I _do_ believe you. But everything I have come to realize–my youth, my exodus from Nazi Germany and the death camps, the loss of my entire family, the travel to America, the assimilation into this country- _Erik paused to gaze around their living room longingly, a reflection, a gratitude of sorts, before_ -schools, discovering the extent of my abilities as I had grown, the life I chose as a police officer, then Lieutenant, _you_ –all of these things have shown me how to live. Shown me how to enjoy life and live alongside _my_ surroundings, based by and on evidence and proof. But faith, Raven, faith was _never_ an option for me. It wasn't something–regardless of those bastard Nazi's branding us with stars–that was a part of who I was after I left Europe. I just fled, survived, continued on, _moved on_... because my _life_ was the proof. But now? Now you're telling me that all of these years I've spent hunting filthy, murderous fuckers and _using_ tangible, solid evidence to convince both myself, my peace of mind _and_ a jury of their peers... all of this, I should abandon because you _believe?_ Yet what's worse- _I believe you._ It's...foreign, and I don't–I don't really know what's right or up or down or-"

Raven seized his hand, holding it tight and close to her. "Erik, stop. You're confused because you're taking _my_ word on a man you don't know. A man in prison at that. You're pushing away _all_ physical evidence that, truthfully, _does_ appear to have afforded me a questionable stance on Charles' actions that day. At least, it would have, being that I _am_ a detective. But, faith– _faith_ is not knowing and yet, knowing. It's love, Erik. It's a manifestation of love and trust and faith, well, it can lead to answers you hadn't ever originally planned on receiving. I'm not saying it's right, I'm not even saying _I'm_ right–about faith. I'm just asking you to trust me. If you won't have that sort of blind truth in what I've told you, then just _trust_ in me. You know fully well I will answer you, any questions you may have, and I can guarantee Charles will do just the same. He _believes_ in people–humans, mutants–without a moments notice, without hesitation. That is why he is locked in a hell too awful to name right now. He..."

She stopped, closing her eyes as thoughts of her brother's whereabouts stunned her back into silence.

Erik caught her chin, lifted it and pecked her nose lightly with the warmth of his lips. "I _do_ trust you. That's why I am at war with myself. This is...all so very new, Raven."

The navy-blue girl smiled wide, her amber eyes shining as though they were reflecting sunshine directly into him. _Warmth, sunlight. Like heaven on a Sunday._

"Raven, I ...you know I need to ask you these questions so that I can ask Charles them as well. I never meant to doubt you, even though it may have appeared that way." Erik chewed on the side of his lip as he finished his spiel, unsure as to how or _where_ he aimed the conversation to unfold to.

"Ask away, boss." Raven moved her legs, curling them under her body, the right half of her leaning comfortably against the arm of the furniture. She was ready, willing. Emotions and the storms having calmed several degrees since sharing the bare minimum of her life story to Erik.

He laughed lightly, nodded. "Tell me about _Cerebro_ and the mutant who helped him construct it? What ever became of this man? If Charles had ran out that day– _not_ asking you to join him–which you said was atypical of his personality–in a fervent hurry, do you think this machine had shown him something? That he may have stumbled upon Jubilee by accident? Tell me how that... _machine_ worked? Can you?" He watched her and waited.

Raven didn't take long. "Well, _Cerebro_ was ...fascinating. Scary as shit, but amazing just the same. And it was a woman who had helped him, a telepath/telekinetic, similar to Charles. Her name was Jean Grey, or _is_ , I suppose. I just haven't spoken to her in, well, since just before Charles was taken away from...me. Anyway, they had spent months–nearly a year–building this contraption. It was massive, and massively unappealing to my wealthy brother's tastes, but nevertheless, he used it for what it was worth. Charles figured he could always amend the aesthetics at a later time. Metal, surprisingly enough, was the foremost factor in its design. Panels were placed according to their magnetism, and once shifted with the tendrils of power he outwardly projected from his mind, Charles could connect with all beings–mutant or human–on... _the planet_." 

A pause as Erik absorbed the information.

"I'm sorry, say again, Raven? Charles could connect to _every person on the planet?_ " Awestruck, disbelief.

Raven smirked, her cheeks pinched upwards, the tight skin forming crow's feet around her xanthic eyes. "Yes. But it wasn't exactly the smoothest running thing, not in the least. He had trouble with it nearly every time–every _single_ time–he used it-" Erik's head shook.

"So this Jean Grey–she never used _Cerebro?_ " Erik's ears could have visibly perked up as he awaited her reply.

"Oh no, no she wasn't nearly as powerful as Charles was. _Well_ , in the beginning she wasn't. Charles had...he had _done_ things to reign Jean in, fearful of her power but respectful of it as well. I knew what he had done without him having ever told me. I _sensed_ a part of him _in her_ mind, but never made mention of it, and she left well enough alone. But...that day. Everything was so different on that day." Raven shifted the weight of her resting legs and moved closer to Erik, the familiar sensations of false pins and needles stabbing as the the pressure was released and blood moved back into her muscle tissue.

"So he-Charles altered Jean's mind? To what–control her? She was a telepath and ...didn't realize it?" Erik couldn't figure out how every question of his had lead to more and more questions. It was frustrating but enthralling all at the same time. His job, his passion, his genetics. Married and anew.

"No, he didn't _alter_ it per se, just blocked _or_ restricted the level at which she operated. Jean knew she was a telepath, just suspected she was lesser in strength than Charles was. On the same token, Charles didn't fear her power for himself, _no_ , he feared _for_ her own safety and thus, did what he did." Erik listened to Raven but still couldn't put two and two together.

"So, let me get this straight. Charles can, _quite literally_ it appears, connect to every mutant or human mind on the planet, using this machine he and an elusive Jean Grey-telepath extraordinaire. A woman who helped hand-make the damn thing–and yet, it's _only_ him–the one in control–seeing as he cut full power to Jean's mental mechanics. For _her own safety_ nonetheless. Fast forward to the day Jubilation Lee is found murdered–Charles _clearly_ standing out as the guilty party to cops and the crime lab–by way of insurmountable evidence. _-Erik took a deep breath, let it release slowly, his mind processing as it went-_ All this aside, I can't help but wonder now. _Where_ was- _no_ -where _is_ this Jean Grey? You said she left shortly before Charles had stumbled upon a–seemingly–distressed call from Lee." 

A serious, deadly mood to Erik's voice, as though he were interrogating a suspect from in front of his polished steel table–the familiar one lying in wait back at the station.

She swallowed. "I told you, I don't know _where_ Jean is now. I just know that the week leading up to Charles' arrest– _if you can even call it that anymore_ –he and Jean were... shifting their perspectives, expanding but still trying to maintain a handle on what they had, _essentially_ , created." A pause before Erik unintentionally interjected, "what do you mean? " _Created_?"

Raven's eyes set on Erik's, then-"Erik, they had created a machine that would, _no, could_ , control every _living_ mind on earth. That means humans too." He already knew that, but hearing it said–out loud, cold and incredible. 

Silence.

Deafening silence of the highest grade, pure and black and empty and void. It surrounded them, _heavy as it lay on their shoulders_ , and Erik thought over what Raven had just concluded to him.

And then it dawned on the magnetic Lieutenant. Like a warehouse switching on its electronics, every fluorescent light burning on–burning bright. 

"Someone **knew** what he was up to. What _they_ were up to. I...I don't think Charles was lead to discover a serial killer, one literally _in the act_ , on purpose, but I am starting to think someone knew enough to clean up the aftermath. And used that as a clearly-laden path to snatch him away, no questions asked." Erik stopped, stood and began walking to their bedroom. "Raven, your brother _isn't_ being held on guilt, of that I'm pretty fucking certain now. But we have to figure out what to ask him on Wednesday, and I'm gonna try and get you in that building. I'll request an interview with Frost when we arrive tomorrow night. For now, let's get our heads on the narrow and straight."

Raven watched as Erik shuffled about the unkempt paperwork on their joint desk for a pair of yellow-lined legal pads and two pens. One black, the other red. Colors that seemed fitting for such an intense sequence of events. Raven didn't know why that thought crossed her mind–distraction, perhaps.

They sat at their dinner table now, one side in direct connection to the others. The dark reflection of its–their newly finished satin-wood dining table–reflected driven, almost stony expressions back towards them. Erik rattled his throat, feeling the slight tickle of what could turn into a stupid winter-time cold. In any case.

"First, we can't giveaway that we know too much. We have to go there and _only_ ask about _why_ Charles killed Jubilation, under the strict assumption that you and I believe he did such a thing. _Both of us_ need to act as though he were _our_ newest person of interest–understand it's for his benefit in the end. After he's convinced we are ready to light the fires underneath his ass, we'll do follow ups about the other dead mutants and his purported involvement–to which again, you and I know there is none such connections. By that point, Charles should be more than a little unnerved. I'll read him as best I'm able, but you, _you_ Raven, will be the tell. We _cannot_ have him believe we think him an innocent. Outwardly, that is. Which brings me to you, my dear Raven. Do you want to go _as you_ –the detective, or in the guise of someone else? Granted...this is purely based on **if** you gain that permit."

Erik tap-tapped the tip of his pens lid against the empty sheet of paper, watched as it bounced slightly before falling back down, then drew it up once more. He repeated this mind-numbing routine as a mental escape, a way to drain any fear or shock or uneasiness about their upcoming charade.

Raven nodded, "he will know it's me the moment I enter that room–again _if_ this icy FBI bitch even allows for it. I don't know Erik, I think it'd be best to go in as Raven Darkholme, Westchester, NY Homicide Detective and maintain a decent composure. Perhaps even lead _them_ on to believe _I_ am there to see about a prosecution against Xavier for Lee's death..." The red-haired mutant's eyes cast off at the sound of her own words. Her own _treacherous_ words.

Unreal. Unfathomable. Raven had never been convinced or coaxed into believing her brother–her _Charles_ –was anything but clear of those charges. Here, _now_ though, she had to– _maybe_ –go in pretending otherwise. It was maddening. Sickening even.

She felt as though she were one more false deception away from vomiting. Erik descried her fears immediately.

"Can you do this, Raven? If Frost permits you inside, and Charles recognizes you–whether you're _you_ or not–will you be able to convince him, both mentally **and** verbally, that you think him a killer?" Erik wasn't entirely sure she would be able to do it, truth be told. Not because he doubted her strength in times of great trial, but because he _knew_ of her great capacity for love. Blinding, unbiased affection.

And after what Raven had shared with Erik about the night she had met Charles Xavier and the snippets of their time together afterwards? Theirs was a deeper bond than Erik had originally thought.

My, how Erik was intrigued to meet this telepath.

This _prisoner_ telepath.

"I...tell me again _why_. I need to hear it again, Erik. In full. WHY am I to lie and deceive _him_?" Raven stood then, winding her shuddering hands around the wooden knobs of their dining room seats. Just enough for her entire palms. Cool to the touch, soothing.

"Raven. If Charles if being held there against his will–which is _obviously_ the case, you and I gathered as much–but, if those that are keeping him under a watchful eye are ... _watching_ us in that room, _and_ if those same people _don't_ want someone like Xavier back out into the world, then not only must we convince Charles that he is going down for Lee's murder, but that no other _outside_ suspects have been named. That leaves all other possibilities at that point to have been removed from the equation, if Charles is pegged with the entire act. So, if these same fucks are doing everything I've just mentioned, then these are the same fucks that know of Charles and Jean's machine, _Cerebro_. And they will stop at **nothing** to protect their investment–i.e. Charles. And we're there to throw an old, rusted monkey wrench into their well-oiled facility. Convince Charles and we convince them. After that first visit, we'll know. And those bastards will be none the wiser to our endgame." Erik cracked his knuckles and leaned his back to the wooden rails of the chair he was occupying.

Raven stopped pacing- _Erik hadn't noticed when she had begun doing that again_ -and turned to Erik. "Wh-what _is_ our endgame, Erik?" Her fingers were tightly wrapped inside of their formers, an effort to ease the shaking.

Erik stood, placed the palms of his hands on either side of her lean arms and smiled, "we're going to break him out of that _fucking_ black hole, darling. You and I. He saved you once, we're going to save him now."

________________________________________

Charles imagined how the moonlight might dance against the embedded emeralds of his mother's old bedroom mirror–catching, glimmering, glittering. Refractions of white light, color and movement all beamed back at his wide-eyed expression, and then, stunned, he delved into silence. Pure emptiness. _Death to the telepath_.

 _But_ a pleasant silence was one he welcomed, eagerly. No, not like the mental breakdowns he was nearly having every other hour, stuck melded to the confines of black walls, with black flooring and blackened, deadened minds that were void of his reach. Even his most strenuous attempts to breach those _goddamn_ helmets had gone unanswered, unsuccessful.

He was breaking _all_ of his own rules now. Either it was that, however, or a swift descent into madness from this cut-off existence.

So he pondered _things_. Objects, places, his most favorite of memories. He had _four_ days left in this ...cursed, forgotten chamber. _'What else am I to do?'_ He spoke to his own mind now, leaving his voice to resonate at a later time; no one was around to hear him, so it mattered not that he remained quiet, withdrawn even.

But those emeralds, green and polished to a perfection he hadn't ever realized until after she had gone. Death from the bottle, or death from her abusive _new_ husband. Both scenarios lead her to live as she could, and thus, die as she had. It had been so many, many years ago now. Charles had only been just a boy at that time... _well_ a teenager. English and wealthy _and_ a mutant telepath. If only his stroke of luck could have returned her...

It was... _no_ , Charles didn't want to relive her shattered life, or his own–at least the parts that hadn't included his sister Raven. _Raven_. That fiery red hair. The sunlight that lived deep inside of those golden-yellow eyes. She was mesmerizing to him, even at that early of an age.

Charles felt a tightness swell in his chest as thoughts of their childhood rushed back into him. How he longed for those days–simple, usual, familiar.

 _Alas_.

He was laying on his back, the rubber-like floor rigid and cold and _hard_ and _'fuck, this is intolerable,'_ as his mind meandered. Charles had his eyes closed, heightening the pleasure from the recollections that left him smiling from his youth, or from her. It helped him to smile now–something unfamiliar.

It kept him _alive_. He wasn't certain, but Charles had the sneaking suspicion that not _all_ of the runners of this asylum were hoping he would walk out of his _waytoothick_ iron door. It wasn't anything new, at least, since he had been a member of the ultra secret mutant prisoners club. Still though, it was an unsettling fact just the same.

 _Memories_. 

Charles picked up where he left off. Children, _he and Raven_ , running through one of Xavier Manor's massive, unending fields. He remembered their calm and their peace as young legs burned trails into the too-tall grass. He thought of the ways the wind blew her _not really real at all_ blond hair... and the swaying reeds that surrounding them. It was all so beautiful, those summers spent alongside such an amazing gift to mutant-kind. A treasure, hidden away because of fear. But- _'stop that Charles'_ -what he chose to focus on now, was the color tone of her skin. The depth, the details, the specifics. It allowed him to fully immerse himself into a world that still existed where she was a part of it.

 _'That blue, blue, blue.'_ He silently said the word over and over, hoping it would- _could it?_ -dredge up thoughts of just how special she was. There were flecks, marble-like flecks that laid upon selects parts of her body–not that he had seen them all, as their relationship had never been more than platonic...well, for him it was nothing more than that, but Raven... –and the scales that extended _just past_ her fingernails.

As a boy, Charles considered them, thought of them as talons, claws to protect the beauty that was just simply _Raven_. Even her name...- _Charles sighed heavily, his mind thinking back to Edgar Allen Poe and all of the trouble that dead mans words had wrought him_ -leant to a certain mystery about her. She could _be_ anyone, at any time. For fun, for strategy.

He wondered if she missed him now. Inevitable thoughts of his current tense snaking into his consciousness, disrupting his memories and leaving him all the more irritable.

 _But then again_.

 _'Did she miss me?'_ again, and then, an answer.

Of sorts.

A knock pounded against his door right then, it's echoing _drum-drum_ carrying through the limited space he had called home for- _what was it?_ -ten days now. The noise was, much like his floor, intolerable.

"Heads up, Xavier. You might be getting out of here by Wednesday morning." It was Polaris delivering a whisper, a _thrilling_ whisper if Charles had ever heard one. He wondered as to why the man was freely offering him information about his upcoming schedule. "Tha-thanks," was all he could bring out of him.

What he wanted to say was _why_ or _how do you know_ or _why in the bloody fuck are you telling me, mate?_ or even, _go fuck yourself, ya wanker_. But Charles kept those sentiments to himself, his voice having sounded strange enough to his own ears for one day.

As quick as Polaris had shown, he was off again, somewhere away and free and free and, oh right, _free_. 

Charles, once again alone with his mind as company. Always.

A rush swept through him. Flashes of vivid greens, cerulean blues, pale whites and blinding yellows burned across the helm of his mind.

Raven. _Raven. 'Raven.'_

_Oh,_ how Charles missed her. Above all else.

Literature had risen into him again, as the swell of his heart over a sister he was lost to from so many months before. A line that spoke of his woes, of his wants and his repressed anger–something he had willingly chosen to hold off on for the night.

A line that made the beats of his heart grow slower, as if preparing for a sudden stop–an _expectant_ stop.

  


_"And each separate dying ember wrought its  
ghost upon the floor."_  


Charles couldn't help think that maybe, _just maybe_ , Raven _was_ coming for him.

He _prayed_ that before the blackness, the anger, or the resentment swallowed him whole, she might come to him.

Xavier only hoped she would make it in time. 

Hopes and hopes he had held for nearly twenty months–all gone unanswered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Charles parts are very low-key in these last three chapters, but I promiseee he will be back in full swing soon! Thanks for the views, kudos, bookmarks & comments. Special thanks to Spoonring for your comment–it keeps the midnight oil burning!


	6. Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik & Raven drive to VA, Charles has more questions than answers, a serial killer stalks, and it's the night before.

**Part II:**

_A Murder of Ravens_

Chapter 6: _Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter_

**________________________________________**

Erik and Raven had fallen asleep well past midnight on Monday, _well_ , Tuesday, for it being such an early hour, so by the time the– _beep-beep-beep_ –sing-songed its alarming tune, the sound had managed to endear neither of them. They didn't wish to move, let alone _work_ nor did it aide in the preparation of their joint scheming; to pull off one of the most elaborate–and blatantly illegal–stunts the either of them had ever dreamt of, they knew the days ahead would be long and exhausting. 

It was a wild thing, hazardous even, and the lunacy of how stark-raving mad and universally altered their lives would be afterwards, hadn't yet come to fruition. Least, not in their minds.

In a present, happier tense, Raven was wrapped in Erik arms; their bodies welded together as though he had constructed them– _willed_ them–into an impossibly close distance. As though he magnetically cocooned them, pulling to the point where breaking away would be viewed as an act of blasphemy. Neither desired the weight of such guilt, and so Erik and Raven simply didn't move.

Magnetism was absolute, and Raven basked in the warmth it brought to both of them. _For_ both of them.

She _wanted_ him–always had, always would–but knew the timing ...perhaps it wasn't opportune. It would be inappropriate to act upon one of nature's most basic instincts, what with the life of her _dear_ brother hanging precariously in the balance. And thus, there were duties and obligations to the more stressing, important matters, and of that, both were resolutely certain.

Sex could wait, _but_.

"But what's another three minutes?" Raven mumbled, her breath hot against the newly grown stubble of Erik's chin. She felt a familiar sensation of melting metal run through her bones–a fire ignited beneath her marble-like skin, decalescent and with murmuring vibrations–blazing bells that were louder than the one that had woken them. Flashes of liquid steel–of radiation and the deep core of the earth, a lava flow: all of that threatened to overcome her every-"Raven, we ought to be getting ready to leave, really. It's nearly eleven a.m. We're already behind by about, oh, _two_ hours." 

Erik wasn't rejecting her, he'd _never_ turn his bluest Raven away, but something static lay thick in the air, distracting him. It was an invisible force stealing him away from the primal urges she was so talented at drawing out of him. Urges he would rather delve into...

But then, a deep spike in pressure on his mind, and Erik noticed Raven had felt it as well.

 _But no. 'That's not possible,'_ Raven inwardly choked, expecting Erik to have said something much like that to himself. She didn't ask, he hadn't offered. 

_'It feels as though Charles knows I'm coming, as if we're saving him, even now...even so far away..'_ A brief, meandering last sentiment–a shake of their heads to clear the spooky cobwebs before, "would you care to shower first, m'lady, or shall I?" he says, voice smooth, caring. Her floppy head of ruby-red hair vibrates as Raven declines his offer, and its then she finds herself pushing away thoughts of Charles. Dismissing those tendrils of familiarity that were slowly tracing up the length of her chilled vertebrae, she feels the return of normalcy and "no, I think I'll watch _you_ go in there for now, so you can come back to me again. Clean...and wet and..." 

Erik's mouth covered hers, his tongue wet, it swirled and licked fervently, like the point of a red-devils teasing tail; sweet tastes of berries– _not_ of stale sleep, somehow–and explicit textures filled him- _thrilled him_ -with the usual and a heavy, constant want. _'No, dammit.'_ Erik summoned to the biggest reserves of his inner will power, so that he was able to eject his body from beside hers, and regretfully, did just that. 

The kiss stopped, slowly but definitely, and Erik drew away in a flash–a blink too quick, even for Raven Darkholme, shifter extraordinaire–and he was gone. The sound of falling water soon filled her lonely ears, as two petite, navy-blue hands roamed longingly across the warmed, empty sheets where Erik had only just lain.

"If only this were a typical morning..." she muttered, wiping at her tired eyes. Resigned. Then guilty considering.

Raven couldn't help the sigh that escaped her disappointed lips. That air slipped frozen from the opening of her mouth as it left her, and it was then she _really_ noticed the differences in how _everything_ suddenly felt. Raven sat up, naked but for her scales, and surveyed their bedroom. The place seemed _alive_ , organic, as though a living unseen _thing_ were there–but whatever it was, it wasn't anything she had sensed in... 

_'Charles.'_ She said it in her head, her mind drifting to his impossible presence for the second time in a five minute span, but then realized it wouldn't matter either way–if he _was indeed_ in the room, or not at all. But that– _that_ wasn't possible... _'was it?'_ More of the same.

Yet, impossible wasn't something Charles had ever believed in, so then, was it _probable?_ Raven wasn't firm on either idea. But the questions these last two days, insurmountable at best, excruciatingly vacant at worst.

Always so many many questions now. 

Raven shook free of those tell-tale tremors she knew were trying to wrack at the state of her mind, and lead herself out of that room. 

And into the bathroom. 

Erik was still in the shower, the steam rising as though he were swimming inside of a tea cup, too large and too abnormal and way too hot. "Something...doesn't feel right today. Is it me?" Raven finally says aloud, examining her features in the mirror. At home, her eyes were always the color of the sun, her hair a deep scarlet red. Her lips blue, her face, arms, belly, legs, feet, hands, breasts–all of it, _always blue._

She hadn't noticed Erik pull the curtain back on the shower stall, nor had she noticed the appraise as he stared happily at her from behind. Her self-image distracted her. This wasn't the first, nor last time that would ever happen though. It wasn't vanity in the sense that she was in love with her unique build, but a wonderment- _curiosity?_ -of how life would have been so vastly different had she been born "normal." 

"Funny, and here I thought I was the only one thinking of how stunning you look in the morning, as well." Raven laughed, not believing Erik for a second. Not disbelieving either. _But._ Xanthic eyes followed him as he exited the stall and slipped a taupe-colored towel around that skinny, droplet-laden waist. That slim, slim waist–always something Raven loved about him. 

She stared at him lovingly, knowing that her intense glaring was par for the course as far as their mornings were concerned. Erik was used to it. Her attraction to him was astounding, and one that never ceased in its growth. 

Teasingly, Erik laughed at her, his appreciation for her person baring a similar resemblance in practice. 

"I'll only be a few minutes..." she whispered, winking as though she were a schoolgirl and he was her play-time crush. Recess wouldn't have been so miserable, had Erik been there–but that, those memories were from another lifetime.

This was routine, and yet so _very_ not. 

Today wasn't for this, Erik remanded himself, taking comfort in the fact that they would share a bed together again at the end of the day. Comforts were all he had, all he had ever wanted. Not peace, never peace. But comfort knowing he had done an honest day's work, had a good woman at his side, and that he fought as hard and as unending for what he believed was right– _those_ were Erik's defining characteristics to a good day. A day where he was still living, breathing and acting in accordance with the laws of gravity... and the Westchester Police Department. 

Determinedly however.

All of these select points lead him back to none other than Charles Xavier. Or rather, _thoughts_ of Charles, and- _'odd, I didn't even notice if there had been an image of Xavier in those folders'_ -how tomorrow morning might end up playing out. Erik wasn't nervous–was _never_ nervous–but he was, admittedly, enthralled to find out just _who_ this Xavier was in reality, and not only on paper. 

On paper Charles was a brutal killer, a cold-blooded _mutant-freak_ telepath, with no known motive for killing an innocent girl. _But_. Jubilation Lee had _also_ been a mutant, therefore implying the system was partial to standards upheld to _only_ those it saw fit to benefit from such frivolous laws. _Rageragerage_. Charles was persecuted not because of what _paper_ decried he had done, but because of his DNA not being a part of societies norm. Erik knew that should anyone claim that the justice system _truly_ believed in such guilty-until-proven factions, there would have been solid proof to depict so–an _actual_ trial being the result, and not simply throwing Xavier into a hole and tossing away the key.

Erik slipped the left leg of his cotton trousers on–black and all business, but comfortable for a long drive–and wiped away the last cooling droplets of his shower. He listened as Raven sang lightly, no doubt to distract her mind from tomorrow's _main_ event.

And yet, hose thoughts wouldn't escape Erik, no matter how hard he attempted to stave them off. An innocent _knowingly_ locked away was worse than letting free a guilty man. Most men in Erik's line of work would agree. 

Still, it was all too surreal for Erik. A heartbreaking reality, really: mutants being targeted, both by myths and monsters.

Yet, _yes_. The majority responsible were humans but, terrifyingly enough, _perhaps_ other mutants were claiming involvement as well–or _not_ claiming, and rather silently playing some role in Xavier's ordeal. Obviously Frost was privy to things she _somehow_ had discovered–of _Cerebro_ , of Charles and Jean–and Erik intended to find out just how she had come to know such.

Lehnsherr shook his wet hair left to right, towel-drying the rest of it. He slipped a fresh white undershirt on, followed by his usual obsidian turtleneck over top. Erik liked the constriction circled around his throat–a subtle reminder, albeit macabre, that death was never farther than the reach of ones own hands.

Or something to that effect. 

When in fact, everything had spun so fervently out of hand–with the revelation of the mutant community, no one had expected open arms, but _this?_ Erik wasn't entirely certain when fear became unanimous with **"Mutant"** , but he would do his damnedest to set the bar back on the straight and narrow.

By freeing Charles Xavier. By giving _his_ Raven back the only other man she had ever called her own. Charles had offered her salvation all those long years ago–from humanity's suffocating grip–and Erik would see to it that he would do the same for Xavier.

Erik wasn't sure that he would reject the idea, _or_ plan rather, even if Charles _was_ found to have been guilty; after Raven's skimmed over life story, the magnetism that once helped Erik stay alive, now burned liquid-hot for her. Lehnsherr's level of care for Raven was matched only by his steel-like determination to _make things right_. For her, for mutants, for himself, hell, even for Xavier.

There was also _that_ side to him that she helped create, and only Raven was aware of its existence. And because of it, returning a favor she had unknowingly paid him by giving her back a love that was complete, was absolute, well. Erik owed her _that_ much for all she had done for him.

Of course, Erik would never admit to such sappy love stories of old, but his coming actions would speak for themselves.

"Erik?" Raven was there suddenly, looking as though she were a mirage set far off in the distance of a desert landscape; waves of color and shades of white and gray surrounded her. The steam from their bathroom ensconced her–a sepia-toned towel hung loosely, as she stood staring at him, yellow orbs curiously waiting for him to speak. "Sorry, got caught up in the moment, I suppose," Erik says, then he coughed lightly.

"Well, are...you okay? You look a little put off- _sickly_ -to be honest." She came and sat beside him on the bed- _'when had I sat down?' Erik pondered_ -and touched his arm. Her fingertips traced two-then three warm beads of water that had rolled down from her fire-red hair; Erik had almost expected the color of the water to have been red...or blue like her tough exterior. It wasn't, of course.

Erik smiled gently at her, one hand lifting her chin. A silent exchange of understanding, of things he wouldn't allow himself to say to her–at least, not today, and then–His lips touched hers for the second- _third?_ -time that late morning and he felt the moment his storms began to calm; at the familiar sensations rolling through her and into him, Erik couldn't deny the level of serenity that came from it. "I'm okay. Just want to get this show on the road. Breakfast here or on I-95? It's about a six hour drive to Quantico."

The towel fell from her just then, and Erik watched as it layered in rows, one on top of the other, landing silently atop their plush tan carpet in a damp heap. He looked at her longingly, knowing what she was trying for but staying firm on his timing schedules. That didn't imply he wasn't appreciative. "You're trying to kill me, woman," he muttered, before standing close to her, two lean arms wrapping around that blue strength as they had done a thousand times in the past.

Raven liked being naked and _herself_ in front of Erik, and so long as he kept _seeing_ her in all the ways he had in their shared past, she wouldn't ever stop enticing the man.

It was a natural high for Raven, watching in awe as Erik gave himself to her, wholly vulnerable and open. It wasn't nearly as often as she had wished, but enough that she kept regularly trying for it; until it was effortless, as easy as catching a bastard fuck of a killer was–for Erik anyway–Raven wouldn't quit.

Raven _was_ happy almost all the time, but satisfaction came primarily in those stolen moments that were few and far in between. With Erik, of course.

Though respectfully, it wasn't limited to Erik only. Charles was very similar to the magnetic man in a lot of ways, she had come to discover, but their stark contrasts most definitely set them apart–defined them. Selfishly, Raven couldn't wait for Erik to meet Charles... or Charles to meet Erik. She couldn't determine who would be more taken aback by it. Probably she, if her nerves were any tell.

Truthfully, a meeting of her two men was something she hadn't ever fully expected to happen, since Xavier's arrest and subsequent imprisonment. And Erik's _career_ in catching men like Charles.

Nevertheless, she couldn't be more enthralled by the idea of it.

Not that she would tell Erik that. Or Charles, had she the chance. Which she more than likely would not.

A thought in which brought her back to the front and center.

"How will you contact Frost? About getting me through security and a permit to _possibly_ visit Charles? I know you had that ass load of paperwork to fill out and fax back to them..." Raven asked, nearly dressed now, her voice bouncing off the flat-white paint of their apartments hallway. Erik was in the kitchen, having decided on a quick batch of eggs to hold them over until at least Southern New Jersey.

Erik realized then that he hadn't even begun to work out the details as far as Raven's visitation was concerned, and decided then that _winging it_ might be their best bet.

It was Erik's worst non-plan plan to date. With an almost certain one-hundred percent fail rate waiting patiently in the rafters. Laughing as it sat, breath baited.

As it were.

His mouth was full of stove-hot scrambled egg as he made his way back into their bedroom. Mumbling, he shook his head and said, "no, _but_ " before swallowing and shrugging his shoulders.

Raven laughed louder than she had anticipated. "So there's no plan?" Not indignant or detoured in the least, she mimicked his upper arms and rolled the joints, showcasing her " _we'll figure it out when we need to have it figured out_ " state of mind.

Ten minutes later: their bellies full, overnight bags packed, apartment doors and windows locked, car started–engine already warmed up, thanks to Erik–the two began their three-hundred mile trip south.

Neither had fully expected anything other than, well, a cataclysmic disaster.

What they would find in Virginia would come to change everything.

**________________________________________**

It was tuesday morning, or so said Polaris, and Charles found himself exactly where he had left himself.

Closet-like room, painted walls as black as midnight, with more black and black surrounding him. Filling him but leaving him hollow and empty–challenging him. The rear of his head felt sore from laying atop the frozen surface of his ductile flooring all night. Rubber would have its benefits... _if it weren't the dead of winter_. All complaints being set aside, though, Charles knew it _was_ better than concrete.

Not by much.

Least it was a small way to reassure himself that "things could always be worse." A token of positivity that meant next to nothing these days. For him.

Charles sat with his legs folded one over the other and quietly stretched his arms; right one first, followed with his left, Xavier felt the tightness of his sleep deep within the tissue of his muscles. His tendons pulled but reveled in the rush of heat brought on by the speedier flow of blood as it permeated the inside of him–it was also another reminder that he hadn't exercised in a few days.

Then again, he wasn't eating as much as he typically had whilst being locked away here, in a _goddamn rat_ -hole, but he wasn't all protrusions of bone or gaunt like a camp victims tightly stretched skin. He looked healthy but _not_ all in the same moment. An enigma he was well too acquainted with in recent days. Or was it weeks–Charles wasn't sure anymore.

Those thoughts being put to the wayward, Xavier stood up slowly, reducing the risk of becoming light-headed, seeing as he had rested on his back for so many consecutive hours. It was this time spent numbingly alone, when wandering distant travels through his mind–blindly searching for any one consciousness that might receive him–left Charles worse for wear.

Yet, during these periods of astral reconnaissance, Xavier set out daydreaming of his most fondest of memories first–of Raven, of his home with her and his friendship with Jean Grey. The hope he had once possessed for his future–for _theirs_ as well. _But_. Following those vivid elations came the lucidity of literal dreaming, upon moments of when he had fallen into a deep slumber; exhibitions of moving pictures that weren't as calming as real life recollections flooded him, cascading over an old happiness with filth and disdain.

Charles was powerless to control the downward spiral of the nighttime and its mental games, prisoner to both this facility and his own person to a disturbing fault.

His mind manifested flashes of fevered red, burnt ashen yellows and an inky blackness that swarmed him–wholly swallowed. But then something he hadn't expected became a regular: a frozen tundra would appear, its icy tendrils snaking, winding upwards on him. Like cancerous ivy on vibrant red-brick. It was all so void, cold–colder than anything Charles had ever thought feasible. These nightmares had played as though they were reels of grainy, old, turn-of-the-century photographs, cracked and dotted from overuse, from neglect. _Forgotten._ Charles would gathered himself, then tentatively, searched for a closer look. There were initials on the polaroid- _who had it been developed or taken by...? Charles had wondered_ -at the bottom right corner, _E.F._ , but past that, Charles could surmise nothing more.

The cryptic mystery his mind created would go on, remaining unsolved, and as the waking world received him for another day, Charles' image retention became slightly foggy. _Unforgotten._

He would only recall the aesthetics of those dreams, and made subtle notations to revisit what he had seen sometime in the future; a reason for Xavier to give his mind some investigatory work. Dreams were important to Charles, but only insofar as their tell-tale elusiveness and not much more. Symbolism had never much played an integral role in his former life, where in regards to the things he had manifested while asleep.

There was no justifiable reason to start now. _'Though, really, what could it hurt?'_

And yet, everything shown through his mind as if dreams were rolled out onto projectors–scenes of black and white–or perhaps a vintage color film–depending on the emotions Charles' mind attached to it. _It_ , was everything now–those distant memories, his life _before_ –but today was a new day, and giving in to the mysterious whims of his past, or foresights into his future, would bring him no salvation.

Time and again he would remind himself of such crude facts. Never once had it been comforting.

Course, neither were anger or rage, but at least those two facets could– _ideally_ –fuel a revenge he had long since begun planning–one to be enacted against every last bastard that had shut him away from the world. Those same people believed him to be none more than a poison, an infection on the human race and everyday–every _single_ day–Charles was waiting to be the facilities neon propaganda of a "Mutants Are Evil!" campaign.

It would seem fitting, _considering_. 

Charles shuffled around–moving and adjusting stiff limbs so that he was ready for the rushing torrents of... nothing, at least for the day. Just like the last nine- _no, ten_ -days.

He would wait for his breakfast–like _goddamned dog_ –and in the meanwhile, run sticky fingers through filthy matte of his dark brown hair. Dirty, unkempt. Charles knew he probably smelled like the length of time he had spent alone with himself this last week and a half, and that is to say, _foul_. And, although he had been allowed those thirty minutes every day to...do whatever it is that needed doing, hand washing his body hadn't proven effective enough to keep away bodily odors.

Scents of rubber-like hair, as though a mask of tar lain over his scalp day in and day out. Scents of thick, emanating smells, stale and stagnate, as though he were left outside too long on a hot summer day.

His teeth had been the cleanest through all of this ordeal, having held on to that one _human_ attribute on account of Polaris' kindness.

Kindness, right.

Polaris– _mechanical guy with a keen last name_ , Charles often reminded himself–was something of an early warning system for Xavier. From the time he had been brought down into the FBI's secret dungeon, Charles had–with the exception of his question to the guard yesterday–never _actually_ spoken to the man; in and down here, they were not equals. Yes, it _was_ transparent by the telepath's imprisonment that they were in fact, _not_ on level playing fields, but Charles hadn't ever sensed any form of animosity from Polaris, and often times, found gratitude for the silent man.

The simple, fact-of-the-matter was that Polaris had _answered_ Charles' question–and well, that was proof enough that not all who were government employees hated, or feared mutants. Even ones made out to look like cold-blooded murderers, like Charles.

Polaris was strict, kept to a code of ethics and to a schedule created for Charles by some higher-up dumb fuck who couldn't care enough to allow himself a shred of common decency. Had they heard of beds? Not even a shower. Yet, this man- _mutant, perhaps? Charles wasn't convinced but hadn't the chance to determine whether or not Polaris was a mutant. Because of that fucking helmet thing wrapped around his skull. Godda_ -was calm, never abrasive.

Charles knew then he could trust that the man–well, not _trust_ him per se, but could count on him enough to not encounter any bodily harm from their daily routines either.

And right at that moment, wait- _speak of the devil_. A hit upon his iron door thumped out, but it was only one knock and much lower than the usual "fifteen minute" alarms Charles had become accustomed too. Then came a voice, an unsure, uncertain tone that rose just above the point to which no man–nor mutant–would be able to hear.

"You have a visitor coming for you tomorrow, X. That's... all I can say."

It was Polaris' voice, of that Charles had little doubt. _But._ A _visitor?_ It was... Xavier hadn't known what it was right in that second. It was confusing but- _no, maybe?_ -exciting all in the same.

Xavier's body had fully worked through the stiffness brought on by his poor living conditions, and sped himself to the cross-like shape cut into his metallic door. "What? _Who_?" Charles asked, knowing the man had already gone.

 _Dammit, dammit, dammit,_ if only he had the chance to speak with the guard. If only for a minute– _half_ a minute would do, in this case. Just enough to determine what in the actual fuck was going on.

 _Visitor?_ In this prison? He was to be pulled from solitary confinement for... _a visitor?_ It just didn't make any use of logical sense, and that was worse than telepathic silence, as far as Charles had been concerned. It was tough to have some variables– _and not all of them_. It was an ache, a painful ache that he knew he was bound to live with until Polaris returned.

As though Charles hadn't had enough problems to last him the span of his _one_ lifetime.

A ruined life at that.

So, he did something he hadn't done since his quarantine into the blackest room he hadn't never dreamt plausible. Charles _screamed_.

A high, piercing wail, Charles' voice nearly cracked from the strain of the audible force–his throat and the veins therein, stretched and were burning red-hot now, he knew. Xavier hadn't even barely spoken in so long at time. It...Charles felt as though fine particles of dust were being shot outward from where they had settled in the deepest, most unused recesses of his mouth. It felt _gross_ , and mucus had risen up then, as a response to the abrupt change of pace.

Even as he went with the sudden shouts and piercing roars, Charles _didn't_ actually know _why_ he was creating such a hazardous- _brazen_ -act of vocal defiance.

Screams of that name–a _single name_ , as it was the only one Charles had been made aware of during this nightmarish vacation filled the airways. Polaris' larger form took place in front of the doors narrow window; Charles' pitch and inflection–of which was notably stressed now–drowned out the sound of his racing heart as he watched the guard stand there. The telepath needed to be heard- _but why did it matter now?_ -but at what costs to him?

Charles neglected to fully consider his chosen response to the secretive news of a visitor–and methods therein–completely through.

 _And yet_.

Scream after scream after rattling scream, all gone unanswered. The guard's name wore thick and heavy on Xavier's drying tongue. The exertions leaving him thirsty, as though Charles had been wading through the Mojave on a July afternoon. The sounds though, they were beyond any a person should ever hope to emit, and once he had made the choice to give up- _or give in, he wasn't entirely sure_ -Charles' vocal cords, he found, were at an unsurmountable level of discomfort.

 _'Ya bloody fuck, course they are. Ya just roared like an ape in the throes of jungle fever.'_ Charles' accosting thoughts ended before he had let them spin into a whole new level of disgrace, but it was...Why had Polaris–who had been silent and standing statuesque for the entire ordeal–turned to look over his shoulder, Charles wasn't sure.

Just as Charles' coughs settled, a shadow formed _there_ , right past Polaris' hefty right left shoulder. It was fast and nearly invisible to his now-panicked eyes. Charles ignored the ravenous, almost feral look of order from the guard. "Who... _who_ is there?" Charles felt bile rise and coat the back of his fevered tongue, tried swallowing in vain, and then went panic-strikenly silent. Rigid. _Painpainpain_ were the only thoughts parading around his head now, after the unanswered screams towards a man he had mistakenly made out to be his ally–simply because of a whispered warning.

Then Polaris spoke. _Finally_.

"X, shut your fucking mouth. _Please don't make me have to come in there._ " Well, there went Charles' hope, dissipated–evaporated, gone the way a rush hour train might. Xavier _felt_ as though he were run over by that same out of control train; the rails–his veins, metal on metal conductivity creating a lightning hot sensation of racing–racing liquid fire throughout his body.

A gulp. A pause and then, "Polaris, _please_. Please who- _who_ is coming? I...I need to-I need to know..." A sad end to his pathetic attempt at haggling the guard– _not his friend_ –and Charles knew his questions wouldn't be answered.

The man began to speak again, just as calm as ever.

"I told you, **X** , shut your mouth. If you get _me_ into trouble–you're not even supposed to know THAT much. I..I wasn't exactly _allowed_ to tell you, man. So shut your hole or I'll-" Charles cut the man off by slamming his palm flat against the iron opening of his door, a high pitched " ** _NO!_** " following his actions.

A thrumming echo rounded through the hallway, bouncing from floor to ceiling and around again before coming back into Charles' little room. He-Xavier wasn't sure what was causing him to lash out- _perhaps the solitude had finally taken its toll on me?_ -but it was too late to return, fully realizing the err of his way. Polaris was... _unhappy_. 

The man's eyes–a demon black, Charles imagined–appeared blood-thirsty, and had they the physical properties to do so, there was little doubt that the telepath would find those same onyx orbs burgeoning out onto an invisible edge. Like a Raven, a Crow. Perched high up and perhaps obstructed from view, but deadly and precise. The guard was angered, almost to the point of a flash-boil and his face flushed with a fevered red. The man moved closer, closer and closer still to Charles' electronic door–it was in that moment Xavier heard the low _humm_ being emitted from the gates constant stream of electricity running to it–and had his face nearly pressed up against the miniature viewer in the door.

Charles backed away slightly. He wasn't certain as to the nature of this man's overarching power in the chain of command- _or if he were permitted to reprimand me in any case_ -and so Xavier remained distant. "Prisoner, code named _X-Man Onyx_. Open the door, Dr. Grey."

Charles didn't know what that was or what _any_ of it had meant. He supposed he was the "X-Man Onyx" as it would make full sense, but who was Dr. Grey to him, and why had... _Oh_. 

"Move to the back of your cell," Polaris muttered, his hands grabbing at the wide helm of his waist as he moved inward. A dark-blue utility belt was wrapped there, stocked full with pepper spray, metallic cuffs, zip-ties and _'what in the shite-'_ "Now, step forward," another order was barked out to Charles, before he realized he needed to comply with this man, or decide to fight back, and spare himself even a minuscule amount of self-worth. If the telepath could only slip that neural inhibitor ring _off_ the guards head, _well_ , it would be the first thing to have gone right for him in nearly two years time.

As it were, that was not the case.

Polaris rushed at Charles in what the professor had suspected was an angered, barreling speed. He was a bulky guard but not obese. _Hefty perhaps might be the better word_ -Charles couldn't think past that judgmental supposition, as a fist came soaring past his right ear. The telepath had strategically dodged that initial throw, and slipped past the guard but dipping under the mans bulk. Charles was now standing right behind the man, almost as though he were silently mocking. _But_.

 _The door was open. The door was open. Just behind me._ The **open** door. Charles turned and made a run for it, exiting from the entranceway but then abruptly...stopped. His shaking hands braced themselves on the edges of the metal door, half in the room, half out. Xavier looked left to right, immediately recognizing the hallway but- _a gulp_ -mentally accosted himself for not ever having taken in its seeable schematics or details. Where were the exits, was he up or down, where were the cameras- _probably everywhere, undoubtedly_ -but suddenly, all went a blurry-crimson burst of stars as he took the better part of Polaris' knuckles to the rear of his head.

Charles stumbled forward and nearly fell, but _didn't_. He watched the world spin around him–gray tile spinning, a radial blur that was threatening to bowl him over, or sicken Charles from its gravitational pulls. "Pol--Polaris, I.." that was all Charles breathed out before another fist found its way into the pit of his folded over stomach. Xavier felt as though there were an explosion inside of his abdomen, and then..as if tendrils of leaking fluid- _oh fuck, is that blood?_ -were oozing into his surrounding organs.

It didn't stop there.

The man gripped Charles' black shirt tightly with one hand, knuckles white from the strength being forced, and moved his face close now– _too_ close. His teeth- _yellowed, hmm...I hadn't noticed before_ -Charles had seen, were mere inches from his own, and it turned the insides of his already tossed, aching gut. Charles swallowed, but kept his lips sealed. His lungs felt as though they were on fire with a need to breathe out the fear he was trying so desperately to contain. _'Push it down, push it away.'_

Charles knew then- _perhaps before?_ -that he must never trust _anyone_ again. Not here, not anywhere. This particular moment in time further proved his theories that humanity had killed itself _and_ the future of evolution but _no_. Now wasn't the time for science and mainstream arguments.

"I _fucking told you to shut you goddamned mouth._ You, X, **you** forced me to do this!" Polaris finished by slamming his balled-up hand into Charles face, and _that time_ , the telepath fell to the floor in one swift heap. Charles wasted no time. He heaved his body up and back onto unsteady feet, his hands swinging out blindly in hopes of connecting with anything, _any_ part of Polaris. The man simply stood back, and _laughed_. 

_Laughter_ , because Charles was an utter mess, both outwardly and inwardly. His eyesight had been reduced to a fuzzy haze from that last punch–one that resulted in a split line above his right eye–and Charles was stumbling back now, unable to gain a handle on himself. " _Fuck_...Fuck y _ou._ " Charles' chin came up and he sighed with as much dignity as an Englishman might muster in such times of peril, and moved his body to rest against the cool iron of-' _was this the door to the moving shadow I had seen earlier?'_

"I wouldn't get too close to _that_ door, X," Polaris mumbled, now rubbing sore bones on the tops of his hands. Shaded with a light pink from where they had connected with Xavier's face. Polaris licked his tongue over them- _Charles gagged at that_ -before tilting his inky-black eyes up to stare at a similar viewer like Charles' own on the door the telepath's back was laid up on. "Get up, shut your mouth, forget I told you _anything_ , and get back in your fucking hole."

"More orders. As if I am a pet one can control and _boss_ around. I suppose you feel empowered? Or is it perhaps, untouchable? Tell me Polaris, _do you feel_ stronger than I?"

Regret. As soon as Charles had heard _those_ words leave his mouth, a fools regret flooded his thoughts, fear churning not too far behind. Charles straightened up, smirked as a way of _downplaying_ his insubordination and moved in silence, walking back into his cell.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Polaris asked-laughed, grabbing quick at the nightstick on the left side of his belt. But-' _no, that isn't what I originally thought it was, is it?_ '-Charles worried, his feet quickening their pace.

Several chain links of adamantium- _Charles surmised, the gleaming steel polished an impossibly bright-silver_ -had detached from the ends of the baton and, as if driven by unseen magic, welded themselves together in mid air–of their own accord. Charles' eyes went awestruck. He hadn't realized.

 _"You're a-?"_ Charles nearly fell over from the revelation. Polaris nodded, "it's much bigger than you being _what_ you are, X. It's much, _much_ bigger. But I will **kill** you, you understand, if you speak–that includes _screaming_ like a tattling ass–about what I've told you. Or about _any_ thing you might have seen. Do you understand me?" Polaris was controlling the metal, but his hands remained attached to his burgeoning sides. Xavier was mesmerized as the metallic chain–with tiny embossed spikes attached–danced at eye-level, inching closer and closer to him, before being retracted and reconnected with that _special_ baton.

Charles had more inquiries than he had chances to speak, because at the same time he registered Polaris' mutation–albeit _revealed_ and not guessed at–the former professor had... _thought_ he caught another glimpse from behind the door across the hall. Two dead-like eyes, staring, void. Gone. Coming from within the iron gate he-Charles had only just been resting upon. But never once, not in the ten days since he had been remanded into this lowly state of survival, had the telepath _heard_ or sensed another's presence.

"... _what_ in Her Majesty's name..?" Charles couldn't help but to ask. He made another attempt at civility.

"Polaris...so we clearly, I'm afraid- _Charles wiped away the blood drops that had fallen onto his cheeks, his lips_ -have gotten off on the wrong foot. I don't know what got into me. But... _who?_ " He asked tentatively, placating the man and playing into what Charles guessed, were the mans simple minded ways. All the while, he held a shaky finger in the direction of _out and over there_. Where polaris had just finished his attack on the mind-reader. _Pre_ -reveal.

Polaris turned to look behind him, staring into the blackness of a cell that outwardly, appeared to hold no occupants, but he knew what lain there. "You don't want to know. And I'm not telling you. What's in there is better left alone and without mention. So keep **_quiet_** about that as well."

Biting down hard on his bottom lip, Charles quickly ripped away some of the loose flesh from his above-eye laceration. The blood dripped easily now, as the telepath fought to stave away pain from physical harm _and_ unanswered questions. Again, Xavier wasn't entirely sure as to which of the two were worse–or what caused him more mental discomfort. Pain, _well_. Pain could be tolerated and compartmentalized, but not _knowing?_ That is a fate worse than hunger in a place like this.

And Charles was already hungry. _All the time._ But that bout of longing wouldn't bode well for his current state of aches and pains: sore head, sore face, sore stomach and not to mention, the bruised ego. Charles certainly found himself in way, but kept it close to his chest and said no more.

Polaris was a _mutant_.

There was _another_ prisoner hidden away down here–just as he had been, though for how long, Charles couldn't begin to suspect. He came to realize then, _again_ , that he know _nothing_. "And you can't tell me- _a coughspit_ -anything?" Charles pushed his luck, again, unsure as to what had driven him to do such a thing. _For the third time today._

Polaris simply stared on. "Your fifteen minutes– _both of them_ –have been revoked for the day. Piss in your cell if you need to." A smile, morbid and evil and filthy, shone back at Xavier.

Charles nearly puked. He couldn't understand how someone so genetically _like_ him, could be so _controlled_ and ...demoralizing to his own species. _Not a single thing_ made sense anymore.

A tilt of the head later, Charles waited for the buzzing of his door as it fell back into place. And then he waited, listening in as it locked. One heavy bolt shifting into place to keep him away.

Away from freedom, from other mutants–away from Polaris and his disjointed ways.

Xavier paused until those heavy footsteps sounded farther and farther away before he clutched at his abdomen and held one palm to his injured face. It was all he could do to comfort himself in that moment, before whispering a steely sentiment, speaking to no one but his own lonely ears, "we're not making it out of this one, old friend."

And then he collapsed onto the floor.

**________________________________________**

Erik and Raven arrived in Qauntico, Virginia approximately five hours and forty-four minutes after they had set out from Westchester, New York.

The ride was easy, smooth and without a dull moment between them. Raven sorted through the case files in the mutant serial as Erik poised her with questions and directions on _how_ to begin his interview with Charles, once everything had been processed, checked and double- _triple_ -checked. The magnetic-man knew that not only would he be surrounded by the FBI's newest recruits and its highest, most underground of members, but also by the Marine Corps base it was a part of.

 _Tricky_. This was going to be a mission for the books– _secret_ books, but important just the same. Erik reigned in those thoughts before he allowed them to wander–to fester. It would do nothing more than shroud operatives and lessen his focus on the interrogation itself.

"So once you're in, I think you should also talk about Jubilation's family. Why or _how_ they might have factored into Charles' alleged murder of their daughter." Raven never found it easy when referencing to Xavier as having _actually_ committed the crime, but saw no other way to go about this whilst being watched by the throngs of people who knew much more than any of them. And, well, to avoid confusion. Since theirs was a deceptive mission in the earlier stages of planning, Raven had to swallow her denial and shift her perspectives. If only in speak and conversation.

It would inevitably _save_ Charles. It would, she knew it would.

His hand tightened around the steering wheel, head nodding in response to her statement. "Well, I'm guessing what you're hinting towards is, why did they wait _three_ whole days before reporting her missing?" Erik was met with Raven's quickly spoken "yes," before she scribbled notes onto her thinning, overused legal pad.

"And then ask about _how_ he did it. What weapon was used, the dimensions of it, was it metal or some other material not recovered at the scene? Ask him details. I also...- _Raven hesitated a moment, before_ -wanted to see what you, Erik thought... about your feelings towards Charles being a telepath. You know he'll read you as soon as you enter the room, right?" Raven's hand sat above the other, both a fleshy-pink _human_ tone now, as she was never blue in broad daylight. That would spell death for her.

Erik thought about what she had just said. Truth be told, he _hadn't_ really thought about whether or not he would appreciate another mind pushing in against his own–given his history, Erik pitied the reader more than himself–but now. _Well_ , now Erik wasn't so sure. "I haven't put much thought into it, honestly. Should I be concerned?"

It was a legitimate point of observation, and one Raven knew all too well.

"No, he won't hurt you. It's more of like a...an awareness. A presence. Warming, even. But any surface thoughts you might have, he will hear. If you think something loud enough _at_ him, he'll flinch away as though you had actually screamed it aloud. Which brings me to my next thought. I was thinking of using that surface-calling tactic when we devise the final plan to get him out of there. If you allow him to–or _permit him_ , rather–that might work to our advantage. We would be able to speak to him, tell him our intentions, without ever really opening our mouths. It's...quite handy, really."

Raven's eyes glossed over at that, Erik watching as she undoubtedly wandered back to a past shared with this man Erik hadn't known existed–until only last night. He couldn't decide if he was intrigued or slightly jealous. Perhaps both, truth be told.

"I see. So, bottom line, go in there, accuse him, get what _we_ believe is his innocence as told through his reactions and responses–since neither of us can read minds–and then go from there. Schedule a second interrogation a few days from now, or Thursday if we're lucky, and then figure out a game plan to extract him. Though, now that I'm saying it, I think we might need more time to draw up a full-proof breakout. I'm used to throwing criminals _into_ prison, not busting them out, remember." Erik smiled at the end of that, a small reassurance Raven appreciated.

His strength always helped calm her uncertainty.

Then, "do you think I'll be let in? Also, should I be _me?_ If someone knows of his life before–of _Cerebro_ and his work with Jean Grey _and_ the school, then they might know of me. Actually, I've _no_ doubts they know of me, since that's the case with Charles' background and all those things that lead him where he is now. So, okay. _Not_ me, then who?" Raven rambled, her pen doodling concentric circles over and over again around a jaggedly-drawn question mark.

The watery-ink had all but seeped to the pages beneath.

"I think...I think perhaps you should be a man on this one. Or, if not a man, then an older woman. One not threatening or a dead giveaway of our intentions, however subtle this initial meeting may be." Erik stopped at a red light then, almost _feeling_ an overcast day of weather shroud him in doubt. December was such a dark month, and this– _all_ of this–hadn't helped the bad taste rising in the back of his throat.

Erik wasn't sure they could pull such a feat off.

But had to believe for Raven's sake. For Charles. For both of them, Erik could do that.

"A man or an older woman. How about we wait to see if I get clearance and go from there, yeah?" Raven sensed an uneasiness from Erik then, but said nothing. It wouldn't do either of them any good to point out emotional shortcomings. Not now, not ever, really.

"We're here," Erik said, turning the Lincoln Continental into the first motel–a Holiday Inn–they had come upon. He didn't need to be in immediate distance to the Marine Corps base– _or_ Frost and her icy palace at the FBI headquarters. That woman was something else. _No_ , Erik had no intentions of running at any point or acting suspiciously on this first go-around.

_'Course, the road to hell...'_

Raven sighed nervously-not fully unhappy though. Then fell silent in an all too unfamiliar pattern Erik was only just learning. Ten months with this woman, and still, an ocean of mystery luring, pulling him in.

"Stay here, I'll run in and get us a room, okay?" He waited for her response, but instincts told of her fears, and so he paused. Touching her cheek gently, Erik's whisper was absolute: "It's going to be okay. I promise. I'm going to make this okay."

Raven smiled, her hands settling against her stomach, blood pressure slowly returning to normal levels.

Her blue eyes- _always cerulean when she wasn't able to actually **be** blue herself_ -followed Erik from the side of the car until she could no longer see his back–his light brown hair vanishing.

Raven all but considered prayer as an option the moment Erik slipped through the door of the motel's lobby entrance. Prayer that all they were trying to accomplish in coming here, wouldn't lead Charles to an early death. Prayer that somewhere, somehow, something might help them. An unseen ally, but Raven knew better than to place stock in good samaritans.

Since the one and only man to have ever helped her was currently being treated unconsciously like a prisoner to a war that hadn't even begun yet, _well_ , Raven found her faith to have been routinely tested. In mankind, in humanity. It was all so unfair, so unjust. So... _awful_. Wrong. _Wrongwrongwrong._

 _But_. Really, truly Raven hadn't even known that her telepathic _brother_ was still alive all this time–which made the separation much harder somehow. Now that she had time to think about it, all Raven could do was ponder what his life had been while she had been living hers so freely.

Darkholme had resigned herself to never knowing, and thus, never attempted any action that might have ended or prevented all of this–this _secrecy_ –and heartache. But now all she felt was guilt and fear. Guilt for not doing enough, fear for the future that was waiting just up ahead. She brushed away a single tear that had fallen down her pale face–cheeks reddened from worry and regret. How... _how_ was she to explain herself to Charles after all this time?

How was she even to look him in the eye–those _blue, too blue_ –eyes, knowing she hadn't done enough? And why hadn't they come for _her?_ If they had known she was his "sister,"–and surely they must have–why hadn't they taken her, considering their proclivity for bending laws to suit their own.

"Raven?"

 _'Oh.'_

She hadn't realized Erik returned and was sitting beside her once again. "Sorry, was...distracted. We have a room, yes?" Raven's shoulders lifted up, then fell, deflated as they were. It was all she could do to appease the heaviness laying thick in such a moment respite. Erik watched her, muted with concern. "We do. Penny for your thoughts, m'dear?"

He threw the Lincoln into reverse, pulled away from the front gate and drove three ticks, reaching their designated parking spot just out front of a bright red door.

Golden numbers were screwed into the visibly aged wood–tarnished but easily read, 24–and as Erik's eyes took in the area's dull characteristics, a soft, exasperated sigh came from the seat beside him. "I'm scared. Erik, I'm so very scared."

There _it_ was.

He nodded, signaling that he had heard her and understood. Shifing his body so that he was facing hers now, he grabbed hold of her left hand and, "I know you are–can _feel_ that you are. But, I told you back in New York, I'm going to do everything, _everything_ in my power to save him, Raven." Erik stopped to think for a moment, then knew his best bet of proof would be his own history. Reassuring as much as it was horrifying. "Think of it this way, if I was able to escape the Nazi's–and _you_ know personally how I had come to do just such a thing–then clearly, a fact of with that high a caliber lends to the suggestion that... the impossible _is_ very possible."

Erik paused, kissed her cheek, now flushed red from dying worry.

"We can _do_ this, Raven. You're strong enough, as am I." Erik smiled as his words drew a happier expression; she was placated enough in the moment to exit the car, bags in hand.

Mirroring her actions, Erik did the same. They walked into their ground-level room, _door number 24_ , and laid their belongings atop the much-worn shoddy carpets. "Home sweet home... for the next two days," he heard Raven mumble, before, "I'm hungry and need to work. How about we grab those case files, find a diner and spend the next seven hours figuring out _which_ of these questions- _Raven waved her yellow notebook in the air_ -takes priority?"

Erik couldn't agree anymore.

**________________________________________**

A man sat crouched by the side of a crumbling brick wall–even the once vibrant ruby-red facade was now faded from the fateful combination of age and neglect. Forgotten and long ago abandoned, the warehouse bought and sold itself on the wheels of loneliness; the white mortar that held the bricks together hadn't gone without suffering–much like the depression that permeated the occupants living nearby.

Breath could be seen as it escaped his paling lips, teeth impervious to the cold but his skin was blown pink from the December air.

A cigarette burned down between two of his yellow-stained fingertips, ash nearly the length of what was now a excused partition to his thoughts. That is to say, his mind was busy elsewhere.

The man sensed and his eyes felt _alive_ on this hunt, almost in perfect tune now with the prospect at hand. As he watched the girl from his shadowed position, her slender body cold and wracked from a lack of heat, he couldn't help the fever that radiated inside of him. He _wanted_ her to be his, well. Wanted her to become a part of his growing collection. By his hands, she would pay what she owed to society–to him, to the world.

This demon wanted to make her suffer by _his_ inflictions, hear her cries of agony from _his_ well rehearsed and vivid recollections of the others that had fallen victim to his power.

His _human_ strength–his will.

A shiver ran through him. Not from the cold, _no_ , but rather from what he had begun to imagine doing with _this_ one. She was different, perhaps _smarter_ , but an abomination that had lead to his own son's death all those months ago. _Twenty-one_ months. More days than he had ever known he could count up to.

But here she was, or _there_ she was, not yet harmed or broken by him. But she deserved his wrath. _They all did._

And so she owed him a restitution. _They all did._

And so he had sought her out, found her nearly five days ago, here in this bottomless hole of filth and despair. _They were all around him now._

And so she was his next chosen one. She was one of a lucky few, giving recompense for a crime genetics had undoubtedly been the sole cause this... thing. This obsession.

He threw his Marlboro to the ground, watched as the orange-red glow of the fire brunt out, then stepped on it for good measure. The worn rubber of his boot shifted from left to right, digging the ashen embers into the earth, bouts of pressure exerted mindlessly.

He was ready for her.

Just like he had been ready for all the others.

________________________________________

Erik sipped at his fresh cup of Loretta Bean's best, feeling his teeth shake from how strong it was. The diner's hostess offered it black, and he drank it black, knowing the extra kick would help keep his mind–and their conversation–sharp as a tac. 

"So, you're going to arrive there by eight a.m. Briefcase with crime scene photos of Jubilation Lee _only_ , in tow. I think it's obvious by this point, from the unanswered calls over these last two hours, that Frost isn't going to allow a last-minute _guest_ into her house of mutant horrors. _So,_ that leaves you and only you. And of course, I trust you implicitly, but..." Raven stopped to nibble at her apple pie- _how she could eat, was a feat unto itself_ -before continuing on. 

"...Go in there with your finest guns blazing at Charles–make him think you're sickened with his crime. Throw the photographs down onto the table in front of him and make _him_ see it as you see it–you know the "bad-cop bad-cop" routine." Erik nodded and laughed lightly. He knew the spiel well enough from his time spent as both a detective and the Lieutenant, and it had never worn old for him. Truth be told, Erik quite enjoyed making criminals feel like scum–but _Charles_ wasn't a criminal. He was the exception.

Wasn't a guilty man, of that much is sure. And it made it all the more troubling for Erik.

Lehnsherr hadn't yet convinced himself. That he would be able to free his mind of _those_ faiths long enough to make the higher-ups–behind the facility observation mirrors, no doubt–believe Erik thought the telepath a monster. 

"Convince _them_ , Erik, not Charles. But...if you do make Xavier believe _you_ think he's responsible for Lee's death, perhaps then might we learn more of the story. Charles isn't a man who lashes out quite often, I can assure you, but perhaps...he might _show_ you what really happened that night. He just might be...desperate enough." 

On the other hand, Erik understood perfectly well what she was hinting at. Make the telepath... _act_ as a telepath would, so that the police detective–him–may get the chance to catch an _actual_ killer and free an innocent. By whatever means necessary. Erik long suspected that Charles might depict an entirely different tale than the one the official papers having been telling for all these months, but it was something of a point of interest to the Lieutenant.

"How...does Charles _get_ into ones head exactly? Really... _into_ it?" Erik had considered having an in depth analysis about this with Raven, but every time it had fallen to the wayward. As it was, Erik didn't want to sound frightened by the idea of a another's- _what had Raven coined it?_ -presence in the back of his mind, but was curious to know its full effect.

So he kept on with his questions. "You mentioned it having been peaceful, warming even. Is that what I'm to suspect the moment I enter that room?"

Erik's lips sealed as he watched Raven smile at him, her hand touching his chin. Affection. A thing Erik was _still_ only fully getting used to.

"It's like a warm bath, or a pleasant rainfall on a sunny day. You know he's there because he _wants_ you to know he's there. That's one thing to know about my brother. He _loves_ that he is a telepath, honestly. It's a point of pride for him, and I'm sure he'll let you in for the sake of, if nothing else, showing off. Remember, English proper and all that. He won't boast, but he will go into specifics, if you steer the conversation in that direction. Which, unless you want to be there for hours discussing his infinite possibilities on telepathic neuroscience, your best bet is to stick to the case- _what?_ " Raven's sudden question spiked a stream of fear across the table.

Erik stared at her in abrupt confusion, eyes wide as though a dawning, or an epiphany had just recently occurred. "What, Erik? What is it?"

The magnetic man's newly-blown pupils darted from left to right and back again. "You said..."infinite possibilities" in regards to Charles' telepathy, yes?" He waited.

Raven nodded.

"Well, it occurred to me that if that were, in fact, a _fact_ , why hasn't Charles simply _made_ the guards, the warden, whomever– _any_ of them, set him free? I...- _Erik's surprise is mimicked on Raven's now pearl-white face_ -can't believe I haven't considered that until now." He tapped the tip of his right index finger against the silver bowl of his coffee's spoon.

Raven watched his motions, numb–feeling just as void as she had the day Charles had been ripped away from her. From all those weeks since.

"I never considered they might have something preventing him. But-but if they had known of _Cerebro_ , and clearly they must have, then it _all_ makes sense. Some form of blocker to keep him out. Oh God, Erik, Charles... _Charles_..." She couldn't force another syllable if it meant her life had depended upon it.

Erik reached across the coffee ring stains along the table for her. "What? What is it?" If only he had more than one whole day to process _so much_ information, perhaps then might he have more of a handle on the personal aspects of this wicked tale. Raven ignored his question and began to pack her own case–files and folders jammed in without any care.

"Let's go back to the motel, please? Erik, please?" She was frantic, but Erik still hadn't known why. What...what had he said? Was it his meandering thoughts of Charles' possible telepathic blocker theories? More than likely, he surmised. _But_. 

"Okay," Erik mumbled, throwing a ten-dollar bill onto the table and signaling the waitress to keep the change.

The walk back to room 24 was quick and silent. The air was crisp, sharpened–snowfall was on the horizon. December was a trying year for weather, and Virginia was no stranger to extreme conditions.

Erik listened to the sounds resonating from the black rubber soles of their shoes. Newer pairs, both of them, but still broken in and apt for the job. Erik liked it that way, always had. Comfortable feet made for a comfortable man–or woman.

The small talk happening inside of his mind was deafening. Erik felt his patience drowning deep into a darkness he hadn't felt for many years. He couldn't take it a moment more.

"Raven. _What?_ What is wrong?" _'Keep it together Lehnsherr.'_ Erik's mind bit back at his impolite and unjustified anger. Though, her shutting down–that, well, that would not do. Nor would it help their plight. So Erik was apologetic but... _not_. 

She spun on her heels at the sound of his tone, but adjusted so that she began to walk backwards, never skipping a beat–not even to placate his emergence. "Simply put, Charles can't survive being mentally shut out–from people, from the world. He never could handle it when I did that out of spite–I know now how wrong that was, but he always had some _one_ else there. At the house, I mean. We had the maids, the cooks, landscapers or whatever to latch onto, if ever such a situation would arise. True, they never realized it was _him_ in their minds, but I knew better–I could always tell when he would put his influence on them. But... now _this?_ I can't sit here and believe that my brother is still going to be...well, _my brother_ after this much time has passed. Not if he's been imprisoned in both body _and_ mind. There's just _no_ chance...he-I..."

They reached their room and slipped in quietly, Erik not too familiar with matters of the familial heart, or how to rectify them _in the moment._ But, "Raven, we still have to try."

Her yellow-eyes- _Raven since shifted back into her natural navy_ -snapped to his, incredulity written plainly over her mysterious exterior. "What? You...you think after what I said about his mind that I was going to just give up on him? Let him rot there before taking _the_ chance of his lifetime? Because he _probably_ is a wholly different man now?"

She stood, wilted slightly forward as her arms crossed one over the other. Mad, so very mad now.

Erik lifted his hands, palms out in a gesture that spoke of his surrender. "No, Raven. I wasn't assuming you were going to give up. I was simply stating that we _have_ to and _will_ try to save your brother **and** his mind. Not that we were to abort anything. Hell, _I_ didn't come this far–I didn't learn _this_ much of your life to just forget it and return home, satisfied with a good day's work. You know me better than that."

Hurt, Erik was audibly hurt by her insinuations.

"I'm...I'm sorry... so sorry Erik, I just _can't_ take this anymore. It's like...the past has been dredged up and I feel terrible for having _never_ done anything for Charles, and I feel like an awful person for having _never_ told you the truth about me or him, and the more we delve into this fucking case, the deeper and more goddamned frustrating it's become. I want him out, I want him out _now._ " 

Raven broke down there, her tears coming on like a seasonal hurricane blazing overtop the southern states. Heavy, hot and unpredictable. She was torn apart and Erik could _feel_ it–wished he could understand it–all of it, so that she wouldn't suffer alone. Empathy that was real, tangible even...

When ... _when_ had he become _this_ man? This caring person?

Erik silently blamed Charles for this all too sudden change in demeanor–the man with whom he hadn't even had the pleasure of meeting with yet.

Speaking of. "Raven, dear, we ought to get some shut-eye. We've gone over as much as we could tonight _and_ yesterday night. Only thing left is to get to the church on time." It was Erik's best attempt at cheering her up in such a terrible moment of heartache.

It worked–well, as best as one could hope for. "Yeah, yeah, that's a fine idea. I need some sleep, as I know you do as well." She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyelids, enjoying the weight from such a simple routine act.

Twenty-two minutes later: the lights were out, Erik and hers attire laid and ready for tomorrow morning, alarms set for six a.m. and six-thirty, respectively, before, "this is really happening, isn't it Erik?"

Erik pulled her close, feeling the thick scales of her legs as she tangled them around his own. He breathed her in, quietly whispering, "mmhmm..." before drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Spoonring, Azryal, & Glisterwolf for leaving some pretty awesome feedback. You move the hands (little & big!) on my fanfiction clock. That is to say, you're all too awesome for normal analogies! <3


	7. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door–"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh lots. Don't want to spoil anything with a summary though...;)
> 
> Shorter chapter than normal, but only because it's broken into 2 parts!

****

Part II:

  
_A Murder of Ravens_   


Chapter 7: _"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door–"_  
________________________________________

Charles was startled awake. His tongue tasted of ice and...something else he wasn't sure. Aridly he licked at the roof of his mouth out of instinct, wincing as it found a texture likened to that of fine crystals, hard and edgy. Jagged. As though they were hanging stalactites buried deep within a mountains core.

Xavier squinted his eyes in an effort to focus. 

The space surrounding was brighter than the mutant telepath had ever expected a _blackened_ room to be–and was it only just yesterday he found himself, once again left for the night in the hands of that isolated hole of a cell? Yet, light was streaming in from somewhere the telepath couldn't tell. No matter. Charles rolled his neck languidly, working out the familiar rigidity his frozen floor had laden beneath his short hair; Charles sighed. It was an empty noise, hollowed out. 

Though nothing in this place had ever offered him any level of comfort, still, Charles brushed through his peculiar morning aches like he had done all the days before. 

Until. 

"Good morning, professor." 

A voice. A feminine voice. Inside of his ce- _'what?'_ Charles' eyes shot open, his back cracking in two places from the abrupt shift from horizontal to vertical. He winced for the second time in the same matter of minutes. That, he knew, would never feel welcoming. 

_'Neither did this situation,'_ Charles inwardly pondered, a silence rolling through him. A sense of "what now" was the full extent of this unscheduled harem of troops. Or this one troop, rather. It, after all Xavier charged, wasn't so much a harem, now was it. 

_But._ Something felt odd with this one.

The British telepath stood and spun around, the rubber soles of his sneakers squealing carelessly as he went. The voice was indeed a woman's–a woman Charles had never been so entranced by–and so quickly. She was...tall, hair the color of brilliance and bleach, more white than cream. Her skin was perfect, from what he could see. And see quite a bit of it he did. She appeared exposed, heavily so, but this woman held no sense of shame in her powerful posture. No, she was sure, calculated down to the finer points. 

Charles swallowed a rising lump of hesitation, eyes watering from the heated scratch; his throat, a desert-like terrain that desired water rather than the fear this woman was impressing. 

But he found his voice then: "I don't believe we've had the pleasure?" Xavier offered out his hand, intending on civility as best he could muster. The pale woman refused his welcoming token and all but hissed at him in response. 

Well, there went any future attempts at being polite. At least in respects to this unkind queen. 

Charles checked over his best, unkempt self, brushing away dirt particles that weren't there; his black pants were faded but not filthy. He smelled terribly but the facility had made it their personal mission that their in-use properties–non-organic, Charles guessed–were well taken care of and strictly cleaned. He long suspected his interims of those two fifteen minute reprieves were the times allotted for just such a purpose. 

Not for him, but for his cell. To keep _it_ tidy, him being nothing more than an afterthought. An interruption to their rules and regulations.

More than once these notions had chilled him. But today, the chill appeared to have been palpable–a part of the cell itself. _Her_. Charles attempted to fight through her psionic prowess. 

"And just who might you be?" England's best mind-reader leaned himself against the onyx wall, arms intertwined atop the taut pull of his chest muscles beneath worn fabric, his ribcage heaving up and down; he all but puffed himself outwards in a show of dominance against _this one._

"Frost. My name is Frost." _'Ahh, so there's the name that lends to the icicles clawing at my back.'_ Charles' mind wandered, his eyes uncharacteristically _un_ focused. He tried to think back if he had ever heard of her name–whether uttered amongst the thieves and killers he shared an inhabitance with or accidentally spoken aloud by those cut off from him, Charles couldn't place it. Who was she? _What_ was she? 

Obviously there were other mutants here in this very building–aside from his block-mates, Victor and Yuriko, but. Only last night had Polaris revealed, and then reveled, in his secretive gifts of metal to Xavier. And that show-and-tell had come at nearly the cost of an eye, or so Charles had reduced. There was also those two piercing, deadened eyes from behind the view-space of another's iron door. Suspicion settled in the strong bones of Xavier's body, searching out the weaknesses that no doubt lain there. Waiting on a prized moment to viciously attack him. 

Mesmerizing and jarring all the same. 

It wasn't the power of this place itself that was mysterious–luring, but instead the wicked truth charles hadn't at all realized was here. Either with Polaris _or_ the shadowed figure that was hidden away from all sense of life and freedom. For how long would be anyone's guess; Charles made mind to revisit that cell if ever a time allowed for it. 

Last night. 

Charles brought the calloused pads of two fingers to touch at the throb emanating from just above his eye, feeling the split, sore skin that was hot to the touch. _Well_ , hotter than he had remembered it to have been, at least in regards to that area of his face. It hurt–it hurt pretty fucking bad, now that Charles was thinking about it. That and the pummeling blows he had taken from Polaris's thick balled fists and, oh right, the stains that were- _Xavier's blue eyes peered down on himself, noting how the black clothing was matted, crusted over with blood_ -undoubtedly strewn here and there. 

His stomach turned as he looked himself over, and thoughts of what might have otherwise come of his days where his face remained untarnished flooded him. _'Vanity, if you please.'_

"And so I ask again, m'lady. Just who might you be?" Charles remembered then to forget himself and focus his attention on this enigma of a woman. One whom was currently standing in his cell, alone with him, paired with a confidence that was resolutely cold and confident. 

"Well, you're living in _my_ house, Xavier. So I thought it time to pay you a once-over. A meet and greet, if you will." The woman circled Charles then, like a shark, hungry and ready to feed; it was as though she had sensed his blood pooling in waters of misery and made a path directly towards him. Her eyes were as crystalline as the rest of her, hair wavy and luminous and long. She was gorgeous, for all intents and purposes, but something wasn't right about her–a thought that grew the longer she was stood before him.

Charles moved as she moved, his too-blue eyes never breaking away from hers. He gave the neural inhibitor a quick look, feigned happiness that it was there but- _ **no**_. Charles knew those devices more than he had known the true extents of his own telepathic reaches. He had made himself–tortured himself–into memorizing every detail of those cursed objects as a way to pass the time. And that thing she had wrapped around her pretty, iced head, well, it wasn't switched on. 

He was absolutely **certain** of it. 

Breath nearly hitched in the depths of his throat, as a war began to rage inside of his mind. Should he dare to have a peak into this glacial woman's mental cabinets, he might very well find himself worse for the wear. No less in the span of twelve hours. Or Charles could go in undetected; send out a thin branch of his power–a spine, nearly invisible but with a fluidity to it that perhaps, she wouldn't come to notice. 

Charles watched in horror as she shook her head, _'no?'_ "Don't. Don't do any of what you've just been working yourself up to doing, sugar. It won't work– _I_ won't let you." In that moment, Xavier could have been a Parade float that was plucked from its bright-lights line-up and thrown back into storage for another year. He felt colorless and worthless–old and unwanted. It was unnerving and gross for him to have stooped to such depressive levels, but Charles couldn't stave off the waves of disdain. 

They were crashing into him more and more these days.

"I'm not here to make you feel better, or to help you strengthen your telepathy–quite the opposite really, but we'll get to that at a later time. No, Xavier you see, I am here because you, surprisingly enough, have been permitted a visitor. And he is expected early this morning. Being that I take pride in my facility and the teams I have set up therein, I won't have you smelling like last week's rotting garbage. Therefore, Polaris, darling?" Frost stepped back and towards the _open door_ of Charles' room, ushering in the guard that had bested him the night before. 

Frost spoke to Polaris with her back to the guard, as she stood with her eyes still fixated on Charles–boring into him. 

"See to it that this mutant is cleaned up, nice and proper for our New York guest. Fresh uniform as well, this one is...I'm afraid, quite ratty." Frost picked at the shoddy fabric on Charles' shoulders with her quarter-inch long nails–polished white and glimmering from the tiny flecks of silver embedded. 

Charles scoffed at her inside the safe confines of his own thoughts, wanting this woman to leave faster than he had ever wished something gone in his life. She was a nasty creature–one beautiful yet ugly deep within. But he said nothing aloud. A pause. Then, as she neared the end of her sentence with him–closing arguments, really–a demeaning fashion met with a disgusted scowl stretched across her face.

"I do wish you wouldn't think of me in such ways, Xavier. Know that, regardless of my bitter resentment towards you and the simple truth that I strongly dislike _everything_ that you are, I don't spend so much of my time making you **ugly** inside of my head." 

Charles' jaw felt slack on his face. She, he, _what?_

She winked at him, and let herself out. But not before, "Darling, you and I will have another meeting shortly after your interrogation with Lieutenant Lehnsherr. Oh and Xavier?" Charles had turned away but made to look back into Frost's marbled face, his fear evident now. He felt weakened, so very weak all of the sudden. "Mm?" he replied, uncaring if there were to be any backlash from his verbal disrespect. 

"Do wash that face of yours. There is blood on your teeth. Honestly, how was it that you were able to sleep so soundly, with the taste of your own wounds laying thick in your throat? Have we raised an animal here?" Frost patted Polaris' arm and watched fondly as rage poured into Charles at the sound of her taunting words. "Ah yes, there is the man I've grown used to. Such the tortured captive." 

Charles knew she was toying with him, for whatever purpose still remaining unknown, and made to hold off on his anger as quickly as it had come. 

The frigid Queen's back to him now, Charles couldn't help the wave of heat that raced through him. Not anger per se, but rather a seethe for this woman he had only just been acquainted with. But he knew not to act on anything, for above all else, Charles felt a fresh sense of excitement over having a visitor. Albeit one who was sent to "interrogate" him–over the Jubilation case, Xavier surmised–but a visitor nonetheless. 

With Frost gone now and no longer in plain sight, Charles' attention turned back to Polaris. The beefy man was to his right, waiting calmly- _Charles noted the bruised knuckles of the mans right hand and sneered_ -before, "you know the drill. Exit the containment cell, turn right, take forty-two steps and stop. Turn right again, take eight steps forward, enter the lavatory. You will have thirty minutes this time. In there you will find a washcloth, one unopened bar of soap, a hairbrush, toothpaste and a toothbrush. Take care of your image today, X. Or _I'll_ be held responsible. And neither of us want a repeat of last night, now do we?" 

Charles let the guards words ease into and swim around his mind. The usual commands had been barked at him, with the precise number of steps as though he were biting out cadence–Charles had vindicated the mans directives on his first day spent in the hole, as it was indeed forty-two steps before reaching the bathroom door. But the differences were, well, exciting for the mind-reader. 

_Thirty_ minutes was a gift in comparison to the routine fifteen. And Charles would use every last second of it. 

"Uniform?" Charles asked, as he began the walk down to the closet-washroom. "I'll bring them at minute twenty-five." Xavier nodded, not knowing what, if anything, was left to say. 

So he distracted himself by thinking of Frost. Surely, Polaris must know who and what that she-witch was, as she almost appeared to have been able to read his own thoug-Charles stopped dead in his tracks. How had he not put it together yet? It was alarmingly obvious.

"Polaris, is Frost a telepath?" 

Polaris shoved Charles forward, ignoring his question outright. Undeterred, Xavier kept on, thinking to himself again then, "wait...she _must_ be a telepath. That ridiculous contraption the lot of you wear when near me was on her head, but I know those well enough to know the device wasn't switched on. And-and she somehow knew what I was thinking about, even when I hadn't uttered a single word. How... _h_ -how is it that I am a prisoner for being what I am and she is seemingly the same and yet, she _runs this place?_ " Charles was heaving in flamed anger now, his chest rising and falling with incredulity as it rolled throughout him. 

The stocky guard walked alongside Charles, having yet to confirm or deny any of Xavier's theories. 

"Go in, wash up, and shut your goddamned mouth, X. Don't make me go and break the other side of your face. You look bad enough." Polaris pushed Charles into the bathroom by a heavy hand against the telepath's back and quickly swung the door shut behind him. Charles heard the familiar _clank_ of the metal as locks fell into place. He couldn't remember a time before these last two days when Polaris had been so rough with him.

As it were..

He stood there motionless–frozen–for a moment before stepping in front of the miniature mirror. _'Ouch, a sparring partner would be an ideal career, Professor,'_ Charles said to himself, picking at the newly formed scab that rested atop one slightly-swollen eyelid. Worse for the wear today after all, of that there was little doubt. 

Par for the course, he supposed. 

But. _But, well._ Frost had to be a telepath. Which burned a hole through Charles' mind the more and more he thought of it.

Why had he never heard of this woman during the time spent here at the facility? Why had none of the others mentioned her–who the fuck was this iced-uppity bitch-queen of Charles' prison. The warden? The boss-lady? Who? 

His brain, Charles', couldn't process the heavy material fast enough, and thus he stopped. Focusing on his ripened exterior instead. 

And his upcoming visitor. _'Raven?'_

Charles couldn't help but think that his silent calls for her to rescue him–to save him really–were being answered. 

How different things were meant to turn out, even a man like Charles couldn't have predicted.

________________________________________

Erik sat alone in his warming Continental, thrumming his fingers against the cold of his steering wheel. He wasn't nervous, but wasn't calm. This...this was a big deal. All of it. The Marine Corps base, the FBI training headquarters–with secret mutant prisons thrown in for good measure–and Emma Fucking Frost to contend with, Lehnsherr knew today was going to be a long one.

A test of patience, of sanity too. 

It was seven forty-six in the morning. He had woken earlier than his alarm, showered, had two steaming cups of coffee–black–and kissed Raven before slipping his best suit on. Black, just like his jet fuel-like caffeine, and ironed to within an inch of it folding itself thereafter. New white dress shirt, tight fitting muted onyx socks and freshly polished shoes.

Aesthetically, Erik was more than ready. Perhaps one might think his appearance was even eager. But it was only because Erik knew these types of places weren't ones to fool around or take lightly–of that he was certain. 

Erik knew prisons, both their insides and outer containment walls and this–all of it, from procedure to the architectural structure–began to feel more and more like a death camp–a no-return jail. Something of which, he was more than a little familiar with. Both in being forced into one as well as breaking out of such. 

In any case, Erik coaxed himself to get up and out of his Lincoln and make the harrowing journey inside. Through the gates, the guards, more guards posted here and there, IDs flashing, passwords given, briefcase checked–all validation–proof that he is who he says he is. And isn't armed. Well, not physically anyway. 

Not a normal day for anyone, Erik guessed, but he moved forward, taking each step as though the strength of a thousand men were driving him forward.

He was doing it for a cause. To save a mutant from prejudice and possible torture–most likely torture. To rescue a man whom had once saved the woman Erik now called home. To make right so many wrongs. And to catch a brutal fucking bastard that thought he could get away with serial homicide. That, of course, was another matter entirely, but one that factored in heavily with his treasonous plans for the day.

That was all the pep speech Erik needed to get through the initial round of "who the fuck are you's," before making his way into the next ring of hell. It was a younger woman, a receptionist Erik gathered, her military uniform was crisp, over-starched but one that mirrored her tight-lipped expression. 

She spoke quickly, concisely: "Name and reason for visit. Place you ID badges, State driver license here- _the woman pointed to a flat disc-like bowl set in front of her_ -and sign the bottom of this." She- _Jessica Manor_ , or so her name tag read, placed a single sheet of paper on the counter before him. 

Erik handed her all the information she requested, throwing his badge out there as well. For good measure–one on faith perhaps.

Then, "what is this?" he asked, holding up the form he was preparing to sign. She feigned a grin, one meant to scurry the lesser classes of men. Not Erik. "It's to protect this base, should the need arise to terminate your visit, Sir." 

Terminate, right.

Message having been clearly received, Erik bit back an uneasy bark of laughter before scribbling his signature. Manor's eyes pierced into his before submissing, "clearance granted. Go one through the revolving doors behind this counter, take the first elevator down to floor number 3. Sign in there, present your identification materials then they will instruct you the remainder of the way." 

He didn't wait for her to wish him a good day. 

Following her guide, Erik maneuvered his way into the building deeper and deeper still. One level, then two, and then finally, he arrived at the third. His suspicions told him that the structure must have been built much lower into the ground than these three floors, but his reason wouldn't allow him an attempt to go any further. This was challenging enough in itself.

The steel and iron–so much of it–surrounded him, and became an almost calming force for Erik, one he would rely on for the whole of this interrogation, interview– _whatever-the-fuck_ this was. A rescue mission, undoubtedly, but not today. He heard Raven's voice in his head then, a subtle reminder to take minimal risks on this first visit, _'Not today, Erik. Keep to the plan.'_

At the brief memory of her smooth speech resonating inside of his mind, Erik thought back to Raven's calculated advice over the the last two days; the rush of information, how the focus shifted between them catching a killer to that of freeing an innocent man ...so that they might _catch_ a killer. It was more a test of his career than Erik ever thought he'd run headlong into, but one he was happy to have been made a part of. 

And just then, Learman's face popped into Erik's head. Neither Lehnsherr nor Raven had told the man they were following a burning-hot lead that might result in the break the case needed. Truthfully, neither party had cared enough to bring the man in, to show him how well he had done in collecting the information, to have bothered with it. He did his job, and Erik had taken over the helm. 

Captain of the ship, if you will. 

Swiping his thoughts clean of New York and Learman, Erik found himself stood directly in front of another reception desk, albeit in a much more guarded corner of the facility. There were two men, dressed head to toe in black, fully stocked utility belts, polished combat boots, and _oh right_ , the newly debuted M16-A1's. These weapons, Erik knew, were fully loaded and- _the magnetic mutant searched outwards for the tiny bits of metal_ -not in "safety" mode. 

He felt comforted by the fact that he could–and if presented with any sort of obstacles–would turn those weapons against their owners without second thought. 

"Name, identification materials. Sign on the bottom line." Erik huffed lightly but kept his sentiments to himself. This time around, the gentlemen–a U.S. Army Sergeant–was more abrasive than the female receptionist in the lobby. The Lt. supposed that the temperature of the personnel dropped dangerously low the deeper one might delve into this labyrinth. 

This didn't phase Erik. Nazi's were his comparison–always would be–those evil, demon fucking Nazi's that ruined his life, well...almost. So Army Sergeant's were pleasant and welcoming when laid out comparatively next to one another, but Erik let it go and pressed on. 

"Your identification has been verified. Have a seat over there. Ms. Frost will be up to see you momentarily." Not as cold as he had been, but the solider's voice wavered slightly. Was it fear? Was it...what was it in this Sergeant's voice? 

Erik nodded, taking back his personal items and sitting himself down as though he were waiting on a dental visit. 

He replayed the man's words over in his mind. _"...Ms. Frost will be **up** to see you..."_ implying that, yes, there were indeed lower levels, just as Erik had believed. He wasn't surprised, but rather eager to know if that was indeed, where he was headed for the duration of his visit. 

Erik sat with his hands in his lap, briefcase to his left, and thought of Raven as he waited. Ten minutes, then fifteen, before, "Lt. Lehnsherr, I presume?" A gorgeous platinum-blond, tall and slender, dressed in a pearly-white pant suit approached him. There was no smile on her face, but her tone was light. Welcoming even. 

It set Erik's teeth on edge. 

"Ms. Frost?" he stood, extending his hand. He looked down distractedly as she formally accepted his greeting, and for the quickest of moments, Erik had thought he'd seen...but no. _'Had parts of her hand been made of diamonds?_ He shook free of her and nodded uncomfortably. "Your lead, ma'am." 

She ushered for him to walk beside her, and as they went, she clasped onto his forearm, almost as if winding her arm around his was a usual occurrence shared amongst them. An intimate gesture, and not one Erik had expected from such a cold woman. Luckily, he was able to hold onto his briefcase in his other hand, the long winter coat laying neatly atop it. 

"I've informed the prisoner of your visit. From what I've gathered, he's more than a little excited to meet with you. I must warn you, however, that Charles Xavier hasn't had much contact with...anyone outside of this facility in close to two years. If you feel threatened in any way, you'll be equipped with a panic button to alert the guards on standby." Erik obliged her words by smiling fondly at her–fake but reassuring. As if thanking her for security was necessity. 

Erik paid close attention as they made way onto another elevator he hadn't originally noticed; the lift was camouflaged as though it were a part of the wall–and effort to throw off any intruders that might have gotten this far on fated quests. "Yes, there are several varying elevator shafts, depending on which level you're directed into. For instance, the lobby lifts only take you as deep as level three. This level, sugar, takes you to floors four to nine. Keep access restricted to ward off any potential threats." 

Nine fucking floors underground. Erik was, quite literally, in the deep. 

_'Metal, Erik. Pay mind to the metal.'_ He willed himself to remain calm, to not allow his anger for how wrong everything felt in this place. How Charles being trapped like an animal for what he was, for how frozen his woman appeared to be–still clutching at his side. It felt off, warped, tainted dangerous with schemes and end games he couldn't begin to imagine. 

Erik knew he would never stop. In that moment, Erik resigned himself–perhaps even to the point of forfeiting his life's work with the police department–to saving _his_ people. 

Starting with Charles Xavier.

________________________________________

Erik hadn't noticed the silent puff of cold air that crept from between Emma's mouth, nor the smirk that lain apparent, as if etched onto her stone-like face

________________________________________

Charles was back in his room after thirty minutes spent scrubbing at himself. It was almost like a shower–even perhaps, like the ones from home, but almost wasn't ever good enough. Not here. It was just... almost. It was something, it was _not quite_. It wasn't what it was meant to be.

Fell short.

His face felt better the more he splashed warm water onto it, followed by freezing dabs of an icy-cold washcloth. The balance was soothing to Charles, almost allowing him to forget the battered reflection that was vividly staring back at him. _'Fucking Polaris...'_ Charles mumbled, annoyed but no longer angry. The mind-reader–who wasn't reading any minds these days–was too preoccupied with Frost and her, well, possible link to his species.

He was fully convinced at that point that she–Frost–was, in fact, a mutant. And Charles was hellbent on proving it.

But first he had an interrogation to sit through.

In regards to a murder he didn't commit, an event that had fated him here, to this mentally challenging and, as of recent, confounding prison.

He could get through this, tell the gentleman–or woman, perhaps?–everything they already knew, and get back here. Murmur the same reasons he had done nearly two years ago, and watch as they fall on deaf ears. No matter. Charles would ride out the remainder of his time in isolation and return to his normal enclosure to further figure everything out. From Frost's presence in this nightmarish tale to the reasons why he was purposely being held captive–something that Charles had long surmised–to the reasons why that frozen blond-bombshell only now revealed herself. In their first meeting no less.

Charles had much to think about. And that, that made him happy.

So very pleased.

________________________________________

The NY Police Lieutenant and the Head of the FBI's _Hidden Mutant Division_ –or so Erik aptly coined her/it–had long since left the safe confines of the buildings elevator. In the brief interim of time–Frost having gone through doors he was not yet permitted to follow–Erik found himself waiting again on their next series of moves together; he couldn't help himself but to look around, curiously, as though one might sense mutants nearby. How, Erik couldn't begin to realize, yet somehow, he felt closer to these–caged mutants–than he ever had before.

For surely if there was one–a British telepath whom had elicited such a fervor from Raven, efforts to let him loose currently underway–then certainly there were more falsely imprisoned. Facilities were predictable. As were any humans running this sort of secret government mandated holding pen. It was universally understood. 

Governments and their elected officials were tolerable at best, but always knowing they aim for the lower blow in respects to humanities–and lest they forget mutants entirely–greater good, well, Erik wasn't surprised by any part of his day thus far. 

All these thoughts moved through Erik's mind as he waited. The metal lockings of his documents casing almost _speaking_ to him...calling out for his attention. 

He ignored the desires to magnetize his surroundings, change their polarities and play with the empty, dead air with static discharges–hair-standing antics. Boredom. 

Erik sighed disjointedly. Everything was as real to him as it was surreal in a place like this. _How dare they._ Erik's anger flared then–red hot, a fury growing to punish, to hurt. To save Charles and to break people down–break them apart–for things he knows they've done here. Unspeakable things. 

As it was, Erik could only sit at the moment. And so sat down, he remained. Calming himself as best he knew how: by thinking of Raven, blue and scaled. Vibrant, happy. 

The German-American detective found his eyes wandering the lonely hallways–vast as they were impenetrable. He felt his seethe simmer to a lower, more manageable boil. It wasn't time for rash behaviors that might jeopardize the mission, no. It was time for reconnaissance and investigations–both internally as well as structurally. 

They were on level nine–that is to say, nine floors direct underground–and the air here, Erik could tell, was processed, conditioned and kept at a relatively comfortably temperature. It wasn't hot, wasn't cold. It was just... _air_. Noticeable, but Erik suspected it was because of how far below surface level they were. 

Silly, irrelevant thoughts ran track inside of his torn mind, before–

"Ms. Frost will be with you–again–momentarily." This one–the mans name tag wearing a surname of Summers–was visibly pleased to have Erik's company down there. As though this solider wasn't let out much. The magnetic mutant wasn't surprised, and made a certain kind of sound–

Erik simply couldn't stifle the snort that left him at the mans eagerness for interaction. It didn't fit? Or was odd, to say the least. 

But, "thanks. You've been down here a long time, friend?" Conversation might help the cause, and so Lehnsherr tossed his hat down atop his briefcase and moved closer to Summer's countertop.

"Long enough. Don't get too many visitors around these parts, as I'm sure you've guessed. Come to think of it, you're _the first_ I've ever ha-"

Frost entered the room and glared at Summers, and stopped the younger man's words dead. With a look. Erik could have cringed. Or lunged at her. Perhaps both.

The latter of his two thoughts brought a curious look from her direction, and Erik could have sworn she knew what he was thinking. Just in that quick moment of focused contact, he saw what appeared to have been her two eyes, transforming into a pearly white–nearly...translucent? But no. As swift as it had occurred, it was gone again. Erik's stomach twisted with uncertainty.

"If you could follow me this way, Lt. Lehnsherr, Xavier has been brought down and is currently waiting inside of your designated room." _A reserved laugh._ "Honey, my tardiness knows no bounds. If it wasn't attached...!" Erik said nothing as the woman attempted a joke. A jest he knew was absolute bullshit. This Frosty-witch woman wouldn't be late to her own appointment with death himself, had she the time and place.

It made the entire situation that much more unnerving.

Erik and Frost said nothing as they walked through a narrowing hallway, a heavy iron door at the end of its short length; its hinges were well-oiled and its other metals expertly cared for–as Erik could easily sense such things. Beyond and past this entranceway, another lengthy passageway stretched before him, before her, one in stark contrast from the drab looking waiting room they had only just left. The floors in here were... lain wall to wall with deep violet-purple carpets, a series of fresh marks from where a vacuum had recently rolled over. It was wildly out of place seeing that–feeling its plush bounce beneath the soles of Lehnsherr's shoes–adding a weird, almost funhouse vibe to the entire location. 

At the end of it all Erik could make out the edging of a single door. 

"Right this way, Lt." Frost lead the both of them, her sway calculated, her stride confident.

________________________________________

Raven's feet hammered across the thread-bare carpets of room 24. A dirty, distasteful plum, with gold leafing spun throughout, did nothing but turn her stomach as she traipsed over and over. Her fingers, hands, wrists–all were tightened, wound up with fear and a hint of anticipation that was coating her sweaty extremities. She didn't know what to do–where to go; if she even should dare leave the motel, as there was no telling who might know of her–their presence.

Raven only knew that Erik poised to within an inch of Goliath's grasp. Right now. Each passing second going deeper and deeper still into an unknown.

She knew the idea of never seeing her partner–and her boss–again was a plausible directive in their covert operation, but neither her nor Erik had given much more than thought to those scares. It would have crippled them to have done otherwise. 

Still, tears marred the scaly surface of her skin–the darkest blue, a midnight on the ocean. Erik had once said that to her–perhaps Charles had as well. The lines began to blur in recent days, memories with one or the other. Her men–both in varying complexities and capacities, but true loves in tandem. Raven wanted _both_ of them to return in one piece, and today would decide the fates of whether or not she would be lucky enough to have that wish fulfilled. 

Her nerves were nearing their peak by eight-thirty a.m. Her two navy feet had burned holes through the ugly flooring, fingers almost pink from their constant rubbings. 

"Calm down Raven, chill out. It's only been a half hour. These things take time– _loads_ of time. You know this. Get it together." 

The xanthic-eyed girl gave reassurance to her lonely, worried ears as time ticked by. It was all she was able to do to stave off the physical pangs of what could, or might, or has already happened. 

And then someone knocked on her door. 

A pit the size of the Grand Canyon dropped down through her abdomen at that precise moment, and frozen with disabling alarm, Raven said nothing. 

Stopped breathing just to be safe. 

Her hair, blonde now, skin a pale peach, she wore the outfit of a college girl during midterms: loose faded-blue jeans, scuffed, worn black sneakers, an Elvis Presley t-shirt–gray with a tear by the throat. 

A man's voice, cold, empty. "Ms. Darkholme, we know you're in there. If you would do us the kind gesture of letting us in, things won't have to work against your favor."

Raven puffed out her chest in mock determination, her strength having returned–but only halfway. The apprehension still ran rampant inside of her, but it wasn't a time to forget the powers that enabled her to be _different_ from all else. Being a blue mutant did have its moments, and she supposed now was just that certain moment. 

The blonde girl's voice cracked initially but then just as sudden found its footing again, "I'd really rather not if its all the same. Who are you and more importantly, how do you know my name?" Raven asked through the door, stepping away as she slowly moved about the small space surrounding her.

Muffled voices followed Darkholme's brazen questions. 

Then, a female's voice. 

Raven's heart nearly stopped–she recognized the voice coming through from the other side of her shitty motel room door. "Raven? Listen, if you don't wish to speak to them–the men I'm with, and yes, we're from HQ with the FBI, then please, may I come in to join you?" 

_'No. **No** , it can't be you.'_ Raven felt the word rise up her throat immediately: Betrayal. 

Bloodlust enraged Darkholme the second that woman's voice broke through the weathered wood that separated the both of them. The mutant Detective never, never _ever_ would have suspected she was involved–not her. Well, not before Erik had delved into the case's finer details the other night. 

Sure, this woman's sudden disappearance before Charles' arrest was suspicious–even odd for the sense of character Raven had come to know from this...Doctor. But now. Now she was just an enemy. 

A dangerously power enemy. 

"Yes, Raven. Yes. I ...you're right. About everything. But please, just let me in." The voice was higher now, almost desperately–wantonly–desiring to get inside of the rented room. 

The blue mutant was once again blue. Her university clothing melted away–arrows and jagged and akin to that of a mirage. Shifting forms was quick, easy. Usual. And besides. What was the point in hiding when ones secrets that were already revealed years ago? At least, those were the convincing thoughts Darkholme had sold herself on. "No. Say what you need to say here, now. Through this door. I...How can you even expect me to listen to you?" 

Raven could have listed on, were it not for the hinges of the door breaking down and inwards right then. The crashing sounds and plumes decade-long dust blew at her rigid form. The door landed hastily, now a laid twisted heap by her scaled feet, cracked white-washed paint and the metallic numbers 2 and 4 hanging precariously from their uprooted nails. 

A silhouette entered, casually stepping atop the last remaining boundary that had lain between them.

"I didn't want to have to do this Raven, but, I really need to talk with you." 

Raven said nothing, but neither did she waver under the piercing eyes of the long-lost Jean Grey.

________________________________________

Charles sat alone–as was customary of prisoners–in a wide space he could only presume was the facilities interrogation room. More like a conference room, but that was of no consequence to the telepath. At least, he contrived as much.

His hands were bound behind him, at the small of his back and wound within a thin–yet impenetrable–link system of chains. The cuffs were too tight, as they always seemed to be, but the flexible line of metal leading down to his ankles was the real pain in the ass. He sat hunched slightly forward as a result, his butt lifted off the steel chair as though he were leaning down onto the table for a quick nap–if one were so inclined. 

If only his day would allow for such a normalcy. 

"Professor?" 

Charles' head shot up at the sound of his being called a name...a title he couldn't recall being directed towards him in the longest of days. Well, not in its appropriate embodiment anyhow. 

It was Polaris. With Frost flanking to the guard's left. 

"Mm? Come to make sure I don't tattle you out to the NYPD, Ma'am?" Xavier kept his voice light when speaking, but her reaction was... not so much the same as it was threatening. 

The mind-reader's cerulean eyes moved to focus away from her absent face and onto the ring of metal circling her head. He swallowed nervously. 

Her neural inhibitor, like before, still was not turned on. Charles noticed that almost as quickly as he had noticed her anger. At what, he was sure he would find out soon. 

Emma made a noise–a _pfft_ –before bearing down on him. She approached him like a caged snow leopard, feral and hungry. Eyes alight with power. "This place, all of this right here- _she waved one impeccably manicured finger around the room_ -is not a joke. Yes, you will be interviewed, as I have allowed it, however, I will see to it that you never speak again, should you betray our hospitalities here. Do you understand me, Xavier? Are we clear?" Her icy gaze bored holes into him; they seemed dead, those light-grey orbs, long ago lost to an evil Charles might never come to fully understand. 

Xavier only nodded. Nothing else would suffice. 

Emma acknowledged his acquiesce. "Good. Polaris, if you could?" Emma's words slipped easily from between her damned lips, condemning Charles to a new bout of unwritten fate. Temporary, but no doubt painful. 

"Yes Ma'am," the guard replied, stepping out from behind her towering shadow to stand beside Charles. The frozen queen's head lilted forward–a wicked smile gracing her lips as she made to leave the room. Polaris' face was stoney, though not as frigid as ice herself. 

"I'll go retrieve our guest. I will be returning back here for the interview in approximately forty-five minutes. Do what you must, but have this room–and him–cleaned by the time I arrive." More orders. Polaris silently agreed to obey her commands. Frost disappeared through the only door at the tail end of the rectangular room. 

Knowing he was in for...something, something not of his control, Xavier sighed heavily. Mentally preparing his body as best he was able. But not before getting a word in edgewise.

Charles resorted to these sorts of cheap assaults to hang onto the last shreds of his dignity. "Come to do Mummy's bidding, are we?" 

He hadn't noticed it before, but Polaris's hands were wrapped securely in thick layers of white tape, his knuckles shielded from harm _this time around._ A gag stuck in the back of the telepath's throat. This wasn't going to end well for him–again. 

"We only do this to ensure you won't up and leave us when it's all said and done." Charles laughed–a giggle, almost–at the man's absurd view of things. "As if one could, Polaris. As if _I_ could." 

The swings that landed against the hard bone of Charles' face, jaw, temples were feverish with assignment. But lackluster in their efforts to actually kill. A saving grace Xavier was sure to note at a later time. 

And then Charles felt his binding links of adamantium grow tighter, squeezing him inward, his wrists screaming in fire, ankles just barely snapping from the force being exuded. _'Right, forgot about that...'_ Charles muttered to himself. The metallic secret mutant using his mutation against an imprisoned mutant. Because that made a lick of sense. 

As it were. 

A harsh cry escaped Xavier's tethered lips, his eyes beginning roll. When had a rope of steel swarmed upon and around his throat had happened, well, it was anyone's guess really. 

Hope. Salvation. And revenge flooded the telepath's mind–muddying it before. Before it was the last thing Charles remembered–for the better part of fifteen minutes, where blacking out had come to be the friend he hadn't ever suspected it to have been. 

Charles was sure to look everything like the destroyed plaything he was by the time his interviewee arrived. 

He only hoped now, that it wasn't Raven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SORRY for the delay on this one. Been so stupid stupid busy that this took WAY longer than I had originally intended it. Also, this is Part I of chapter 7, so when chapter 8 is posted, it will technically be Part II. Silly AO3. I also dramatically reduced my italics, as it both annoyed some of my readers and myself, so here's hoping this is better! (I really am trying!)
> 
> Lastly, super special thanks to the following commenters – furius, azryal & spooring – I just can't begin to extend my gratitude enough. Seriously. You guys are the sun, I'm the silly 9 (Pluto is still a GD planet in my mind!) planets that revolve around you! <3
> 
> Lastly Lastly - big, hugh warning coming soon, but I'm not entirely sure I want to put a tag with it, as it might give away something. I'll see what happens though. ;)
> 
> ****** April 19th update: Chapter 8 is on the way. I haven't left this story, nor do I ever intend to. I'm just a slow poke with writing...forgive meeee!******


	8. Nameless here for evermore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven & Jean figure things out, Erik and Charles ...finally meet.

****

Part II:

  
_A Murder of Ravens_   


Chapter 8: _"'Nameless here for evermore."_  
________________________________________

Two hidden yellow orbs were suddenly shocked wide open, a reaction as though a ghostly apparition had manifested before Raven's eyes. She was muted, silent as the events began to haphazardly unravel themselves.

To what extent, the blue girl hadn't yet known. 

Stuttering now. "Wh–why are you here?" The words sounded feeble, abused. Raven silently blamed the once-laden, but now free falling dust that had skittered through the air down into her lungs. She felt anger by the woman's upstaging presence, weak and frail and tiny all in the same moment. Emotive senses the young mutant wasn't familiar with.

Jean simply stared at the form-shifting mutant as ashen particles shimmered lower and finally settled between them. Waiting for the calm to return.

Grey's head lowered as she silently ordered the guards to wait outside, one man on either side of the door's entrance; precautions were never taken with a grain of salt in her line of work, regardless if one might have prior knowledge–or relationship–with those in question. 

The men obeyed dutifully, knowing all too well who was in charge of this mission, their stiff backs turning away as gazes shielded against the bright of day. It was this tall women they obliged: a fiery red-headed mutant, one whom was always at the helm of control–something that never sat too well amongst the circles Grey shared with Frost. Commander. Controller.

But Jean was undeniable. Of that Raven could easily remember from the days her brother had spent working alongside Grey. She was a force, a hurricane contained.

Jean's black pant-suit, with a matching dress shirt and a blood-red skinny tie, completed an almost cinematic character that stood now before Raven's stilled body. "So?" Raven spat, taking a chance on her voice again. Charles. Charles was the only thing driving Raven onward. Well, and Erik. Of course Erik. Raven watched as Jean's eyes pulled tight at their corners, a smirk shaping the softness of her pale skin.

A telling nod. "He's the reason I'm here, Raven. I'm glad you brought him up." 

Confusion wracked Raven, momentarily. Then. 

Darkholme bit back uncomfortably, "Erik? Hang on a second...you're here to discuss Lt. Lehnsherr?" Raven's expression was lost to unreason, her eyes scanning the room, searching for something, anything that might help the sudden delirium befalling her. "Calm down, Raven. I'm not the bad guy here–quite the contrary. Here, have a seat, please?"

One of Jean's arms motioned towards the edge of an abandoned, lumpy looking mattress. Raven eased herself down without any further instruction. Her mind was whirling and the break was appreciated. "But... What does Erik have to do with why _you're_ here?" The words sounded more venomous than Raven had intended, but those sort of questioning thoughts were irrelevant in a time like this; Raven didn't care.

"Skip the pleasantries then, yes?" Grey barked, pulling the rented room's only wooden chair out from where it sat beneath an old, forgotten desk. "Well, okay. Raven, I know you're here–both you and Erik–to bring a false interrogation into the facility. A ruse to trick us into believing that you're only here to investigate Charles' heinous crime against that poor young girl–Jubilation Lee, was it?" Raven nods, her now deadpanning yellow gaze never breaking from Jean's own.

The telekinetic telepath continued. "Well it's absolute nonsense, I hope you know. The interrogation, the questions you two drummed up on your adventurous road trip from New York to our little mutant prison here; all of it is Grade A horse shit." Raven's back straightened at the tone of Jean's penetrating voice, the scales on her arms rippling with the effort to remain intact. To remain whole.

"I beg your pardon?" Raven almost stood then, but thought better of it. Saving the embarrassing push of the other's telepathic influence over her in favor of keeping one's own.

Jean coughed, paused, then, "Raven, come on. This is much, _much_ bigger than Charles. There's so much you don't know, both of you–all three of you really–and I'm here to fill in the gaps. So. Do you want to keep drumming up ways to incapacitate me or would you prefer to actually figure out how deep of a hole you've dug yourselves in?" Grey's eyes were just that, cold and hard. Unfeeling. Waiting for Raven to settle her mind, to focus on not simply the here and now but the future and how altered it will inevitably find them.

Bopping her head forward in agreement, Raven wrapped scaled arms around the slender muscle of her biceps. Digging fingers in ever so slightly, she focused on the physical pain to stave off waves of emotional doubt. What she could _feel_ was real, not those phantoms waiting so far off in the distance she could no longer name them by looking into their lost faces.

She prayed Charles wouldn't be one of those forgotten souls–the worse kind of emotional trauma she could imagine.

"If you want your brother back, and your Lt. Lehnsherr, you need to listen to **me** now." Jean's voice was deadly; a reptilian toxin lacing every spoken syllable.

The time was now for what Raven had so long been waiting for.

The blue mutant couldn't stop the flooding of her mind: "Tell me who Frost is, and what you have to do with any of this. Tell me why you knew I was here–tell me why the interrogation tactics are nonsense. Tell me why I can't help thinking you're not exactly here to help me, or Erik and Charles. You left, remember? You knew what happened–before it even had happened–to Charles, didn't you? Didn't you?!" Raven was losing an already wavering grip on self control.

Grey held up one hand to silence the young Detective. Clearing her throat, the onyx-clad telepath stood up and cracked her neck in a smooth roll of composure. It was a ceremonial sort of preparation, or so Raven guessed.

Then the crimson-tied woman spoke, commanding all attention onto her words. No room for class participation beyond this point.

"Frost is the head of the mutant facility, and yes, I work there voluntarily. I was not taken against my will, as I've come to understand that was a concern during the early days of my absence from your home in Westchester. What I have to do with this is something of a sensitive matter that we will tread upon later, after more facts have shed some light on the confusion you have here." Stopping to quickly slip out of the black blazer she had been wearing, Grey draped it over the back of the splintered chair she occupied not five minutes prior.

She kept on. Raven was all but mute.

"I knew you were here because I'm a telepath–as is Emma Frost–and your methods to go about extracting Xavier are piss-poor at best. The facility is a fortress and you're attempting to pull wool down over its eyes and frankly, it's a slightly insulting. I would have believed Charles might have taught you something worth knowing during the time you had with him. Or perhaps even your job as a detective. That must count for something, no? Anyway, as it stands, walking in to question Xavier as a means to yours end isn't going to do much but trap your boyfriend. And yes, Frost wants him as much as she still wants Charles ensnared in her grasp."

A perfectly calculated pause, Jean watched the information settle–and hears as it doesn't–within Raven's mind.

There was _panicpanicpanic_ and just enough foul language that Jean voluntarily extracted herself from the detective's mind.

"There's no time for you to truly grasp the gravity of what I'm about to say, so while you accost yourself for the broken plans that might find you out of both Erik and Charles, I'm going to continue on. Because unlike you, Raven, I don't have all day to play Mr and Mrs Treason." Jean's eyes were alight with passion now, determined and finite in her efforts to regain all facets of control.

Raven shakily obliged.

Jean sighed, "Good. Now, I left Westchester the week before Jubilation's murder because I was...attempting to snuff out Frost's plan. Yes, well, the original plan, that is. One that was meant to capture your brother and use him as the facilities puppet in tandem with _Cerebro_. To find Frost her beloved army and amass the most powerful ones beneath her watchful eyes. Sounds simple–very "ruler of the world" and dictator-like, I realize, but in the beginning that was Emm-Frost's only mission. And in the beginning, as we have now seen with your brother, Charles, if she doesn't fulfill those desires, the uncooperative are imprisoned and well, not handled with our utmost–"

Raven shot up as images of torture and pain seared into her mind; Charles, writhing in agony from some nameless brute doing unimaginable actions against the young Brit. Charles, bloodied and confused, alone and ...without reason. Not knowing why he was there, why his name was the one laying blame to a murder he hadn't committed. Charles, abandoned, forgotten, cut off.

Jean cleared her throat to bring the focus back onto her, "Restrain the emotions, Darkholme. They'll do you no blessings around here."

Lashing out, Raven's hands gripped at the thick strands of her own crimson hair. Jean's toying words had been the last straw for the young shape shifter. "HOW? How can I just sit here and listen to you tell me that...for nearly TWO years you've let Charles _rot_ in that prison without helping him? Without trying to save him or get him out or...or, or even...-"

Deflated, the tears came in drones now. Hot and angered, they fell from Raven's swollen eyes. "I just want to know why, Grey. Why did this happen to Charles?"

Jean's hands were wrapped around the strong bones of her own hips, tongue moistening the dried skin around her mouth. It was time enough to pause, time to give Xavier's young sister what was needed to keep going. Keep her will alive. "Raven, I went into that facility to save Charles. To protect _Cerebro_ from falling into the wrong hands– _Frost's_ hands. Don't you see now? Charles may be a prisoner, yes, but he would have been Emma Frost's personal army of one had I not intervened. Capable of building and executing a mutant uprising unlike anything you and or I have dreamed possible. It's doubtful Frost would have ever even had cause to pull something like that off, true, but the option was available to her had Charles _and Cerebro_ been under her thumb. As it stands, the unforeseen "mutant killer," as you and Lt. Lehnsherr have coined him, flipped both Frost's plans and my own on their heads. Now, legally yes, Charles _is_ responsible for Jubilation's death, regardless of whether or not it is true fact. As you and I both know, it is not fact; Charles is not a murderer. But the legal system–as applicable as it could be given there was no trial on his behalf, states that Xavier must be remanded to Frost's facility until the event of his death."

Jean stopped, allowing a mental reprieve for Raven.

The detective said nothing, only returned to her place atop the aging mattress.

"With me so far? Good. So, Frost's plan, as it essentially was then failed, forced her to shift focus in a manner that would regain even a shred of control; Charles went from a potential high profile ally–albeit one brainwashed and void of the man he once was–to high profile prisoner. Set locked in his cage to spend time, whatever remained for him there, in a sort of nightmarish limbo. Until Frost located _Cerebro_. Then her original mission would be back on its rails again. Greased and ready to go. Only, Frost hasn't found _Cerebro_ yet, and I don't intend on ever letting that happen."

Raven stood and began to pace, the new information falling into place. But.

"Still, I don't believe you're innocent in all of this Jean. Tell me, why is that? I mean, how did you know of Frost's intentions before even charles had...enough so that you left without leaving word with either he or I? Did you use _Cerebro_? And what about that fact as well? That like Charles, you also are a telepath, couldn't you have simply let Charles slip from Frost's mind thus enabling his escape? Or used said telepathy to trace down the mutant serial and cleared Charles name? Even if it was all done on paper–keeping him secret still? How could simply you watch your friend suffer for twenty months and...do nothing?" Raven exhausted herself.

Grey's eyes flashed in retort, an almost fiery red burning in the heart of her onyx pupils. It hadn't gone unnoticed. A bite to the telekinetic's tone now, "Raven, I know you're not a simpleton. Surely your mind can account for why I only did my job and 'let Charles suffer,' as you so eloquently put it. There are **reasons** even telepaths, like Charles and like myself, can't easily extract oneself from Frost's icy grip."

A memory of just last night, spent eating pie and going over yellow papered notations at Loretta Bean's diner came flooding back to Raven then. The revelation that something–a blocker of sorts–was being used to restrict Charles' access to minds, consciousnesses–his freedom.

Jean smirked in realization, "there you go champ."

A stifled huff came Raven's disgruntled response. "So what is it? Are you a part of it?"

Grey narrowed her gaze, "Well, _it_ is a manufactured neural inhibitor device, developed by Frost and her team of techs to block all telepaths from entering, thus altering, the minds of those in contact with the imprisoned. I, being that I work _for_ Frost and not the other way around, am required to wear one. I'll admit that it's a rage-inducing regulation but one that's protocol nonetheless. Though, despite what you may or may not believe, my presence there has spared Charles more of what he's only recently been experiencing under the care of Frost's facility. And Detective Darkholme, might I take a moment to make light that I am one of three telepaths working at the facility, Emma included."

Raven swallowed down the rising golfball-sized lump that had made camp in the back of her throat. It was all so much; the palms of her hands sweaty from fear and doubt and uncertainty. Jean hadn't volunteered the name of the third facility telepath worker, nor how she had known of Emma's plans for world domination before Charles even realized there was trouble on his horizons. Raven believed it was purposeful, but time was short. Details from so long ago might not matter in the here and now, and so she reserved the right to stow them away for now.

"So what do I-we do now?"

Jean Grey spun around in slow circles, front teeth nipping aimlessly at the fingernail of her right thumb.

"Now we figure out how to get Lehnsherr out before it's too late... for him."

Ominous undertones. Raven easily read through the subtext. "Hang on a minute... Are you telling me it's too late for Charles? Is that what you've been driving at this whole time? Giving me hope that you and I...and Erik, could find a way to resolve this without more heartache but really, we only ever plan for the Lt.?" She was beside herself with fury now, Raven's lips shifting from a cobalt blue to a frozen gray.

The older woman half nodded, her focus unchanged by the rising levels of Raven's anger.

"Raven, the Lt. we need on our side if you're even contemplating the success of those schoolyard blueprints of breaking Charles out. So yes, you and I need to figure out a plan of action, execute it, regroup with Erik in absolute secrecy and then try anew for Xavier."

Raven could say nothing; Jean was cold and calculated and too far ahead of her. "How do you expect me to...-" Darkholme stopped, realizing matters of the heart were irrelevant in times of crisis, or were they at their pique, she couldn't tell, then resigned, "what do I need to do?"

"I need you to make the same choices, whatever they may be, whenever I make them. When the time comes, you do as you're told." Jean's hair rippled like cresting waves of blood-red, rolling onto shore and staining the white sandy pallor of the skin surrounding. She said this, almost transformed into a bird of prey, her head facing downwards, so close to Raven now.

There would be no room for argument.

________________________________________

Erik stood motionless before a large, nondescript door. An entrance to berate prisoners, an exit for everyone else.

The Lieutenant rolled his shoulders, cracked three out of five knuckles in the fingers of his left hand. Tell tale signs of a tactical interrogation: loosen up, shake it out.

Frost had gone in ahead of Erik, shutting the door quickly before the metal bender had pause to view Charles–the prisoner. Erik suspected she was getting all of her eggs into one basket–the method of covering ones ass in times of great reveal. Lehnsherr had seen this practiced time and time again by the scummy lawyers he had been forced to make plea bargains with. Protecting interests. Saving the guilty.

Erik let his past slip out of his mind, choosing to lay focus onto his physical surroundings.

The hallway extended out behind him, and Erik made note of the loops and bounds it had taken him to get to this precise location, deep in the heart of the FBI's mutant facility. Frost's little stops and starts wouldn't deter him from making the great escape should a situation arise.

Speaking of. Frost exited and now stood directly in front of Erik, her milky-white hands holding out a smooth band of steel before him. It was nondescript but telling, one green light, one red, both tiny beacons built just off to the side of the shining loop of metal.

"Lt.? If you would please place this atop your head: just above your eyebrows, but lain across the tips of your ears. It's as much for your protection as it is facility regulation." Frost waited as Erik quizzically inspected the metallic ring, recognizing it from the one Frost was currently wearing; Erik surmised it was the reason Charles had yet to extract himself from his current situation. A blocking device of sorts. He knew there was no room for disagreement, so he eased it onto himself, remaining silent as Emma adjusted the settings to fit the circumference of Erik's skull. Distractedly, Erik listened to the slight _hmmm_ it made when a switch was flicked on. Erik thought the red light must have been grayed out, or replaced with an identical green, signaling proper working order.

"There you are. You may go in now," Frost said, moving away from out front of the door; perfect as ever she was, with a ruby-red tongue reaching out to the edging of her pale lips.

Erik nodded curtly, grabbing for the briefcase that sat beside his right leg. A ruse, the thing was, but there if for nothing else than a reminder of why he was going along with this insane mission. The folder and documents of the dead mutant–Jubilation Lee–were contained therein, paired with his and Raven's scribblings from their case review sessions.

Moving forward, Erik walked slowly through the threshold of the facility's interview room, his legs as strong as ever with newfound resolve.

Immediately the room peeled away its secrets to him, like a fraying onion, one layer gone, one layer revealed.

First, a scent of blood born fresh inside of these four walls pierced his olfactory nerves. Rustic and thick. Heavy and recent.

Second, two refracting pearl-like eyes burned bright inside of Frost's head, almost diamond-like; they were peering in at Erik as though a reptilian predator were stalking, and Erik, undoubtedly the prey. She did this all in a matter of seconds–less than, really–before politely excusing herself away from the boxed, mirrored room's entrance.

The last sight that fell upon Erik's now-blown pupils was the small, broken down man seated alone at the only table contained wherein. _'Charles Xavier.'_ The man's head was facing down, a few drops of what Erik could only guess was blood, littered just beneath an opened mouth; throat sucking inwards for air through thick laces of saliva as it hung above the ceramic table.

Red droplets on a pristine white. Erik couldn't think of what that reminded him of but made a mark to stow it away and think on it later.

Erik gulped a sudden growing apprehension in one fell swoop, forcefully pushing his ethics past what was an obvious case of recent abuse.

Though, his voice hadn't sound like his own when, "Charles Xavier, I presume?"

It was just about the biggest cop out of Erik's entire career–opening an interrogation with an obvious claim to the man an official, like himself, purposely sought to interview. But Erik was loathe to admit his nerves were taking a toll on his mind...not to mention the metallic band that silently hummed around the width of his head. Or maybe it was his mutation, imagining an electronic buzzing sound that wasn't truly there. In any case.

Everything was overwhelming in this place, and now, here, with Xavier, Erik felt helpless and impotent. Foolish to think he could ever reverse or change anything the telepath had or might endure.

Erik quietly took in the sight of his fellow mutant, well, what he could see. The man was hurting, from someone or something, from everything possibly.

Spittle drained from between Charles' bruised, cut lips as he opened his mouth to speak. "And ...w-who might I have the p-pl-pleasure of joining me on such a s-special oc-ocassion?" Stuttering words–Erik knew the pain must be wracking Charles' body, and he had yet to even view the man's face–to assess the physical damage there.

"Lt. Erik Lehnsherr of the Westchester, New York City Police Department, Homicide Division. I've come here to ask you a few questions in respects to your involv-" Erik's mouth snapped shut.

Charles had finally lifted his face upwards; somewhere below the surface of the spotted white table Erik sensed the weight of chain links–heard them scrape metal on metal–and winced. The swell of Xavier's cheeks, the bruising lacerations snaking up and down his fevered-red skin, the fresh specks of unwashed blood drops, all of this and more marred the professor's face. It was an ugly sight.

"Oh." The only word Erik was able to manage in that very moment as he averted his eyes back down onto his midnight-black briefcase.

Charles smirked as best he was able, raising his eyebrows slightly in suggestion that Erik continue on with his pointless interrogation. Only Erik hadn't seen that for turning his gaze away too early. So.

"I have a b-bit of an authority problem. Wh-what is you want?" Charles spoke only because he knew it would get him back to his cell sooner if he complied with yet another person charging him. Judging, perhaps. But Charles knew he needed rest, however it may come to find him. The fight was taken out of him from that latest round with Polaris, and his will to hope had faded to nothing more than a dull blip lighting upon his radar. Too irregular now to count for something substantial.

Erik couldn't avoid staring any longer–it was a human concept, but one adopted by nearly all bipeds. Train wrecks were viewed by the millions. And Charles was a disaster site–ground zero.

A chill tickled him then though, breaking Erik from his reverie–a suspicion as to who or what might have lead him feeling such an arctic blast was there one moment but vanished in the next.

As it was.

"Yes, well. I, um, so... Jubilation Lee. You were convicted as the sole perpetrator in her death, done so in a silent sentencing of course, due to the nature of your genetic mutation, but I'd like to discuss the details involving that particular day resulting in Lee's cessation of life. Anything you can recall–things like the time of day, scents, colors, sounds, what you had been wearing, furniture placement, textures–anything you remember will help." Professionalism found its way back into Erik's tone, but he had to remind himself of the ruse. It was all a ruse. Nothing more.

Charles nodded politely, pausing to lean his head to the farthest side away from Erik, as a bloody pocket of mucus and spit fell from between his lips. "'scuse me," the telepath mumbled.

Erik folded his hands in an act of patience. Nothing on earth would force Erik to force Charles. In any way.

He wanted to reach out and comfort this man, clean and bandage his wounds–tell Charles he was there to save him. That Raven wasn't far. That his days spent in hell were numbered.

In contrast, Xavier had yet to make eye contact with Erik, his mind too preoccupied elsewhere to care enough. About this unknown Lieutenant, about Jubilation's case or the details he had spoken of so numerously in his time wasted at the facility.

"I-I don't know what you want from me Lt. Leh...Erik. All y-you need to know you can find in a file s...somewhere," Charles answered, his head facing down again, eyes closed. Dizziness plagued the telepath now, his brain undoubtedly suffering from the after effects of battle.

Unexpectedly, Erik's hand reached out, fingers inching closer and closer to Xavier's sullen form. He wasn't sure why or what had prompted him to even _want_ to touch the telepath, but then again, Erik hadn't thought of this man as a stranger. Not really anyway. Raven had shared so much the history of one, Charles Xavier, Erik couldn't stave off the sensation that he somehow _knew_ this man–knew what he was about.

Innocence lost. That was the picture painted for Erik now.

"I've read the files, Xavier, I want to hear what you have to say. For yourself." Erik snapped his hand back as the young professor hoisted his battered skull upwards again. Afraid of being misjudged or scaring the man off.

And then it happened.

Silly really, for Erik to have been so thrown at the sight of a typical genetic trait... but those were the bluest eyes the metallic man had ever lain witness to.

Lehnsherr sat there as though his body had transformed into a smelted block of uncut iron. He hadn't moved or broken eye contact–he couldn't even speak, couldn't seal his lips back together again for saving his life. He was taken down, disarmed in a matter of nanoseconds. By ...no, surely not the color of Charles' cerulean orbs, but. Yes, Erik conceded he was cornered, trapped, obligated–happily so–but mostly, committed to this. This mission.

Charles simply stared into Erik's green-gray eyes, quizzical as to the nature of the Lieutenant's sudden silence. Had he done something to offend his unwelcome guest? No, Charles couldn't recall anything, nor had any significant amount of time passed between Erik's inquiry and this very moment.

But Xavier had exhausted his patience long ago; asking resignedly, "are you alright, Lieutenant?" The telepath leaned his head back slightly, so that a group of matted stray hairs fell from out of his view, hands still bound below the table. Erik coughed at that, visibly pulling himself back into the land of the mobilized. And then he spoke in a tone vastly different than the one he had been using up until this point.

"No... no I'm not alright, Charles." First name. Erik rose from out of his chair, stretching his fingers and steeling himself against the waves of _rageangersowrong_ boiling through him. Searing into pulsating veins like a lightening bolt, striking a forgotten rod of steel–shimmering wet from fevered rain water. Red hot from the abrupt flash.

"You know, I shouldn't have to wear this... this goddamn mental blocker ring-fucking-thing around my head. I _should_ be able to just trust you and your word. So tell me, Xavier. Tell me the truth, once and for all. Tell someone and make that someone ...me," Erik bit out all but the last word, aside himself from the jolting burst of determination.

Fully focused now to trick that wicked-bitch Frost and get this mystical blue-eyed genius out of Satan's cage. Erik would say anything, incite despondent rage or start a riot if it meant getting the job done.

He felt the familiar pull of magnetism as he stepped directly behind where Charles was seated; the metal binding Xavier to the table, the prison, murmured and longed for his mutated pull, but Erik withheld the urge. Pushing down and away at the desires to give in, choosing to use it as a back-up if need be. Chains were weapons in themselves, so Erik would require less time to attack an unwanted foe before the other had a chance to realize what was happening to them.

But in his current position, Erik noticed something he hadn't before–on Charles.

Small oval rings of pink flesh lined the back of the telepaths neck, winding around the front of his throat. _'They choked him.'_ Erik nearly lost his remaining threads of control and blew the buildings steel upwards and out. But implosion wasn't the answer. Killing everyone wasn't the answer–or so Erik deluded to force away the thought.

Charles said nothing as he watched the strange New Yorker assess him; he couldn't find reason enough as to why he would even want to account for his appearance, much less the need to do as such, yet the Brit felt scrutinized under the weight of this man's glare. "Something e-else you're looking for, Lieutenant?"

Erik swallowed before, "may I see your wrists, Xavier?" reaching out both of his hands, palms facing up. Lehnsherr felt something shift inside of him, twist; a downright metamorphosis of self. He hadn't reached out and grabbed the telepath without permission, though it was understood for being what he was versus Charles: an imprisoned convict. Falsely so, and yet.

Charles' eyes snapped up and bored deep into Erik's, a strain for...no, the one-time professor was searching for something.

A connection, a reason. A _tell_.

The corners of Erik's lips lifted north ever so slightly, eyebrows raising in confirmation of what Xavier sought so deeply for. Charles saw it first, and then, felt it. Metal began to vibrate against the heat of his skin, a quieted hum resonating so close. And then it was–a spark there, a defining moment shared between two strangers who weren't so different; a reveal. Charles knew it immediately and shifted so that he was away from the edging of the rectangular table, giving Erik a full view of the shackles that held him captive.

Charles grasped plainly: this Erik, Lt. Lehnsherr, could be trusted.

Not taking his eyes away from Xavier's swimming pools of blue, Erik wished nothing more than to offer Charles admittance to his mind, and would, had they not been barricaded by Frost and her lofty team of technological know-hows. Perhaps later then.

Erik was certain he would see this operation through until Charles was a free man...or, if one of them were to be killed on site. Those were the only two paths to follow from this moment going forward.

For now.

Erik nodded, gazing down at the darkened steel that looped in and out of itself; "chains," he mindlessly mumbled, the words slipping out before thoughts of who might be watching them crept in. He didn't cared in that moment–well, not enough to abstain from speaking nouns in proper fashion, but Erik knew he wouldn't breach so far as to incriminate himself by way of physically using his mutation. That would do neither he nor Charles a lick of good.

"Are you always restrained with such brute force, or is this"–Erik gestured using one finger to point from the thick, heavy steel and up to the broken features of Charles' face–"a common practice for you?"

Erik gave pause so that Xavier might answer, his magnetic line of sight reverting back down to the telepath's lap. Back down to the steel. There was a smooth patch of it nearest the top of the bindings, one noticeably misshapen– _melted down_. It was the links' end to front, welded together. Lehnsherr investigated further, throat contracting as the truth set into him.

"There are no keys to undo this?" A statement more than a question, Erik now signaled only to the oval loops that went from table to wrists.

Charles said nothing.

Erik's suspicions were confirmed in stiff silence that fell upon the room.

"Has someone here, in this facility–a staff member perhaps–used a certain method of personal influence upon you?" It was Erik's brazen way of asking if another mutant possessed the gift of metallokensis. There was no doubt in Erik's mind that, had he not been wearing the telepathic blocker, someone, somewhere inside of the facility would take it unto themselves to mentally–forcefully–lead him out of the building. Or worse, deeper into it.

But lucky for him that that wasn't the case.

So he kept on, choosing to ignore the wide-eyed glare Charles was throwing his way. "Charles, I might know a thing or two of what _appears_ to be happening here–to you. Enough so that, if I'm right about my presumptions, quite a bit of how I imagined things to have progressed in this interrogation are, well, different."

Erik wanted to whisper that he could strip away those metallic links and reform them into bullets–missiles even–targeted at the people surely hiding behind the looking glass. And then grab Charles and bring the telepath to safety. With him, with Raven.

Alas.

"I don't u-understand, Lt. What is it that you're asking me?" Charles spat, in a defensive attempt to save his own ass. Erik had the ability to leave when this was done and over with, Xavier, not so much.

Erik lowered himself down onto the pads of his feet, heels lifting off the polished linoleum as his body tilted inwards, nearest now to Charles than he had ever been up to this point. "Listen to me, follow my lead on anything I may or may do. I'm...-" Erik stopped, looked around. No. He couldn't give it away, not here, least of all now.

As he moved, Erik's fingers brushed over the twitching pinky finger of Charles' right hand–accident perhaps, but not an unhappy one. The Lieutenant stood, shaking out the fresh creases in his slacks. "I'm here to discuss a possible transfer of institutions, Mr. Xavier. And if you cooperate, this could work to your benefit with a reduced sentence and the possibility for parole in the future."

Lehnsherr had made it all up–on the fly no less. But he needed an out, needed a smoking gun to move the growing stagnancy along.

Charles could say or do nothing but follow Erik's pacing with varying degrees of shocked expressions. What could he reply with–"why yes sir, I'd love to leave one prison for another!" or "well, I _am_ innocent but I'd rather not be in this hellish box a moment longer, please, take me away to another one?" No, Xavier knew either way he was... but wait.

"Where did you say you hailed from, Lt.?" voice stronger now. Erik had his back to Charles when the question had been asked, but he moved around to face the failed professor in earnest. "I didn't. But I arrived from Westchester, NY. I gather you're particularly familiar with that area, yes?" Raised eyebrows in suggestion, Erik knew Charles was following his lead out.

Good. _Good._

Charles nodded, comprehending what could be–fighting the urge to hope, but unable to deny it's warming effects. He reveled in the breath of fresh air that inflated him, welcomed it.

"Yes, I-I was once a resident of Westchester, NY–outskirts really. After my time spent in Oxford, I moved back to the family estate with–hey, might you know my sister, well, adopted sister actually, a Miss Raven Darkholme?" Eager eyes now followed Lehnsherr as he circled the room's ceramic centerpiece.

The color of Erik's cheeks flushed bright with red, face contorting with an effort to fight off a smile. Charles was better at this than he had expected. Erik's mind willed the blocked, unhearing telepath to continue on connecting the dots, fill out the story, figure out he wasn't here to condemn him for sins he hadn't committed. Or because he was a mutant. Erik simply needed Charles to put the puzzle together, sight unseen.

Though Erik knew they had a lengthy way to go.

But the Lieutenant nodded politely, "she actually works for me, funny enough. Miss Darkholme is an exceptionally intuitive detective on my homicide squad. One of the best." Erik sat back down, having presently marked enough of the room as his territory. This was a pissing contest after all.

Erik silenced himself as he pondered his next move; like chess. Strategies only worked when you had them in place. But not everything must go by the rule book, not even Lt. Lehnsherr. And this was such one case. He thought of Raven and how he was given so much from her, but had to act as though she being Charles' sister wasn't something of a newsflash–he had the files to prove as much. No, Erik just wanted Charles to feel safe–and if there was one part of this plan that could make that happen, it was Raven.

She was Charles' other half, for all intents and purposes. Her being involved–in any method–would grease the otherwise frozen mechanics of Xavier's will to believe. That he could make it out of there one day. That what was happening to him _was_ a crime against nature. That he could get back to his life, to _Cerebro_ and find the man truly responsible for the mess he had fallen into. Erik knowing Raven and now Charles finding out such truths, well, that would prove to make or break the metal bender's plans.

"Right, so let's discuss Jubilation Lee, yes? Now that you know a little bit about me, and I know plenty of you, tell me. Details. Colors, sounds, sights, smells–if it's a sense, I want to know if you used it to discover anything that day that might help your case." Erik pulled a pen and a yellow legal pad out from inside his leather satchel. It smelled of the diner food he and Raven had shared not sixteen hours before.

Charles moved his hands around for the first time, the chain links clanging against the long metallic tube that sat bolted under the ceramic table–retaining him.

A nod then, "Yes. I do remember peculiar things that were p-possibly omitted from the final report, though I suppose I can only guess really." Charles paused, the fabric of his pants sopping up a line of spittle that had ran down his cheek and dropped off; an eyebrow laceration that would most definitely require stitching.

Erik watched, feeling a fresh stab of anger bubble up at the nasty sight. He nearly reached out to dry the man's bleeding face, but no. That would visibly show he cared for the telepath: something he couldn't afford for Frost to see. She might have already begun to speculate, but physical contact would solidify that things weren't as they seemed. Then again, Erik couldn't care less what Emma thought. Charles would be sprung form this rat trap sooner than she had roped him in.

That was fact.

Nevertheless.

Charles continued. "I remember stepping into her apartment–Jubilation's–and ...things were already horrific. She was barely alive by the time I reached her–what was left of her. I-I remember a thick scent of pine, I'd go so far as to say it was a musk. I remember the TV was on but muted, a crack running t-the length of it. It made a rainbow pattern–a streak of color across the snapped glass. Jubilee was watching a show when ...she must have encountered him. I remember grabbing to hold her hands, but they shackled–an old cast-iron type, as if from another era. I held onto them anyway. The ...the murderer appeared to have only just left by the time of my own arriv-val." Charles stopped, eyes falling. Certainly remembering the horrors of that day.

The day that changed everything.

Erik picked up where Charles left off: "Do you remember seeing any weapons at the scene? And could you explain the massive amounts of blood spatter against the walls? Or the missing eyelashes?" Lehnsherr knew he was beating into Xavier now, returning a reminder the telepath hadn't ever sought out.

Charles shuddered where he sat, metal rattling louder this time.

He was annoyed, almost offended by the lack of concern from the Lieutenant suddenly. Hadn't they something going? An impromptu subtextual conversation?

He ignored his judgement and gathered his resolve. Answers, following the cop's lead. That's what this was about.

"Well Lieutenant, I... no. I don't recall seeing a weapon. The blood was too thick as well–it was everywhere. Although I-I do remember a single paint brush laying almost completely underneath a destroyed couch. The hair-tips were colored red, but I never thought anything of it. Do you believe the assailant painted ...painted with Jubilation's blood?" Charles swallowed the rising bile in his throat. How one could do such unforgivable acts against another, was both an unimaginable and mysterious thing to him.

Erik nodded, "we suspected as much. Continue please."

Charles' eyebrows pulled up in exasperation. This case was the only part of his life he didn't want to remember, and the only thing he so vividly could. Nonetheless, he owed it to Jubilee to finish it once and for all, no matter how greatly it affected him.

"I held her as she died. I don't know why he hadn't finished it–maybe my presence stopped him short. But she was shaking, eyes wide in fear. She died that way–frozen in time with an appearance as though she had been scared to death. Nothing I could say, either telepathically or verbally was able to soothe her. That day will haunt... will haunt me for the rest of my life."

Erik chose to ignore Charles' sentiments. "Are you so certain the perpetrator was male?" the Lieutenant asked, scribbling lines of black ink across the xanthic pages of his note pad. Nothing was insignificant.

A huff, "yes. Jubilation, like myself, was a mutant. I discovered her, and thus stumbled upon the trauma she was experiencing through ...well, through a neurological telepathy enhancing device both I and a colleague of mine had only just built and implemented. It was like flashes of red burning into my mind when I located her. If only I had reached the poor girl sooner..."

Erik pressed on, demeanor wholly altered still. "Yes, so she was a mutant, like you–like you? Was she a telepath, I mean?" Lehnsherr knew the truth, but chose to continue on with the verbal chase.

Charles bit back, clearly agitated now, "No, Lieutenant, she was a mutant but not a telepath. She had the gift of pyrotechnic energy blasts from the palms of her hands. Jubilation also had modes of avoiding telepathic influence, so it was no wonder I hadn't discovered her until she was nearly dead–she had unknowingly blocked me but lost that form of control once she was gravely injured." A pause before Erik spoke. Differently now.

"So gravely injured that her mind allowed yours to enter and locate her. Tell me, are you able to see _through_ a person's actual sight, using your telepathic enhancer?" He leaned closer to Charles now, eyes deadlocked on the professor.

"Mm, in most cases yes, but Jubilation's mind was too overwhelmed with pain and fear that I couldn't penetrate it. I could only feel her life force fading, so I haphazardly searched deep into her memory for an address and left as quickly as I was able." Charles' fingers twirled around a few of the links as he finished the recollection, sighing dejectedly at the realization of what his life had become from that day so long ago.

An epiphany came to him.

"Lieutenant, you mentioned Raven as being one of the detectives working on your staff. Might I inquire when that happened–when she became an officer of the law?" Charles was curious now, needing to know. Wanting so badly to know the changes his outside world had taken on.

Erik only nodded, "we may discuss Miss Darkholme at a later time, but for now, let's wrap Lee's case. So because Jubilation had the mutant ability of energy bursts from her hands, why do you suggest the offender must have been male–based entirely on that node of information?"

Charles moved as close as he was able to Erik now; the man no longer a stranger, but not yet a friend. "Lieutenant, someone, presumably human, had enough knowledge on Jubilation to catch her off guard. That would be their only way of containing her–recall those antique shackles I mentioned that bound her wrists–unless they themselves were a genetic mutant with a superior power. Though, why one mutant would sadistically attack another, especially when there are so great a number of us in hiding, is beyond one's compreh-hension."

A dizzy spell suddenly gripped Charles then, forcing his lips closed and head down. Erik's stoicism was challenged then as his left arm stretched out and landed atop the smaller man's forearm. "Are you alright, Xavier?"

Clearly the telepath wasn't, but the appearances of this unexpected lapse of self was striking even for Erik to witness.

Not caring, Charles let slip a loud cry of fevered pain as the icy-cool influence left him. A hollow sound that fell into maniacal laughter followed by, "did you kno-w Lieutenant Lehnsherr, that I'm not the only–pssst...listen closely–not the only telepath here? I will say this though, I _am_ however, the only mind reading prisoner!"

Erik watched the Englishman in silence, stunned. He hadn't known why or where that outburst or change of character had come from.

... But then he thought back onto what Charles had just stammered out. Not the only telepath. But the only telepathic prisoner.

Erik stood fast, moving to shake Charles out of whatever wicked reverie that had claimed ownership of his mind. Magnetic hands found their placement upon Charles' shoulders, one on each, and Erik squeezed as he pushed and pulled Charles' body; not a violent shake, but jarring nonetheless.

Charles laid his head back, silent now, those too-blue eyes closed. Frayed tips of the telepaths dark chestnut hair touched Erik's white dress shirt; tiny specks of blood were left behind as Xavier found and controlled himself and smoothly pulled away.

Erik cringed at the crimson sight, wishing to get his hands onto the bastard that had given Charles such a beating.

But he hadn't let go of Charles' lean shoulders yet, almost-kneading roughly now at the tension in the professor's muscles and the weakness that plagued him from the mind numbing assault.

Shock. What the hell _was he doing_?

Hands retracted, Erik coughed and moved to sit half on, half off the ceramic table. To the right of Charles now, face to face once more. He wouldn't apologize, no, but Erik had the sense that his actions were inappropriate at best, a deep show of concern at worst.

' _Fuck it. You care. Something about this one...'_ Erik thought, biting the bottom of his semi-trembling lip.

Charles said nothing as he watched Erik settle, instead aiming focus on the recent memory of Lehnsherr's two confused hands that had only just released the muscle mass above his bones. A touch the likes of Erik's hadn't happened to Charles in nearly two years time... and just who was this man–this stranger–and why had he done such a personal thing? Apprehension set in, but also a sensation that _yes_ , although Erik was here as an official interrogating the imprisoned, he was also seemingly ...playing for Charles' team.

He contemplated back to when this meeting had only just begun; recalled the tiny vibrations that flowed through his metal traps and the smirk on Erik's face as he watched Charles watch him. And then the cold shoulder the Lieutenant had given as Charles recounted the events after Jubilation's death–surely a ploy to make the cop less involved personally and more in charge officially. And then there was his sister...

As if placing the final shape of a one thousand-piece puzzle into its slot, Charles' mind made ends meet.

The stunted telepath put it together. _Those_ moments were so solid, so telling now.

Lt. Erik Lehnsherr was a mutant. Raven–who was his mutant sister from a life he hadn't thought he'd ever return to, who grounded him and kept him from telepathic edges he would have fallen over had she not been there... this same girl he found imitating his father after breaking and entering into his home–that Raven presently worked _for_ this very odd guest Charles currently had in view.

Silence had shrouded the room then, neither knowing what to do, what to say next. Charles wouldn't say his thoughts outwardly, but inside he was choking: needing, wanting

A low-humming _beep_ suddenly sounded, jarring both of the men from their dazed reveries. "Fifteen minutes remaining," a nondescript–almost robotic–voice spoke, filled the air with urgency. 

Erik nodded to no one. Wrap-up time. 

"Are you sure you're okay, Xavier?" Erik knew he could do little else in the way of saving this pleasant convict, conversation the only option on hand. For now at least. The New York top-cop gestured to the telepath's face, head and waited patiently, all the fight from within draining now. Here at the end, he was still so close to an infancy. 

He'd been here nearly an hour and was no closer to mentally crafting a breakout plan–suffice it to say, Erik felt defeated, deflated. Charles answered, but his actions were disturbing–almost possessed-like.

Charles' head tilted but not in a placated "yes." No, Charles' head leant from side to side rapidly, in a juvenile manner–almost childlike; a confounding sight for Erik, it twisted his gut into hair thin knots, weaving thicker as they grew. It appeared as though the Englishman was listing forward as well, falling towards the ceramic that waited just below. It would have been a hard hit. 

Erik rose quickly, hands darting out to catch the fainted professor as he lost the grip on consciousness and went under. Not a single word of pretest uttered.

Another outside influence, no doubt. Erik cursed the empty, charged air. Wanting so badly to rip Charles from the chains–links that screamed out for Lehnsherr and the desires he so longed to give in to. But he refrained–saving a tormented life wasn't about immediacy, it was about accuracy. It wouldn't be long for Charles now, not when the Lieutenant found himself so connected, so ...taken in by Xavier. 

Speaking of which, Erik peered down to stare at the back of the telepath's head as it rested against Lehnsherr's blouse; brown hair sticky, matted and open wounds needing attention. He held onto Charles, not knowing why, not knowing what to do while waiting for wakefulness to return. 

It didn't. 

Erik sat nervously as nine minutes passed. Ten, then thirteen. He felt the warming brush of Charles' slow breathing against him but jumped slightly at the sound of the locked being electronically unhinged.

The door to the interview room swung open, a man stood there in silence, black-polo t-shirt reading FBI. Searching the man visually, on his person were the usual tools of the trade: nightstick, handcuffs, pepper spray. But all items seemed to have never been used–they were polished to a shine and without any seeable scratches. There was only one thing that was atypical to the Lieutenant: the entire baton was a smooth black, save for a two inch depression at the end where metallic chain links sat–Erik reached out some but couldn't deduce the type of material it was–but there looked to be flecks of dried blood stained throughout the intertwined loops. These few objects were undoubtedly welded down against that very same depression of the staff members beating stick. 

_'Odd.'_

Erik shifted so that Charles' torso nearly laid across his lap now, having slid his own chair beside the mind-readers' to take a seat... and lessen the physical burden. With his mutation, the Lieutenant followed the metal bindings on Xavier, searching out the metal–but what he had originally sensed before wasn't correct. Far from.

It wasn't steel that held Charles captive, but rather that same type of unknown material that was–Erik paused, snapping his head from shackles to baton and back–adorned to the the FBI-man's nightstick. With blood on it. Charles' blood on it. 

Green-gray eyes listing upwards, Erik found the man peering down at him dangerously, focused and ready to spring into action. Watching as Erik pieced it together. It was a day of puzzles, solved, created, but there for the taking.

Instinct told Erik and he knew _this_ was the mutant that fixed Charles' face, hurt the telepath and then welded those links together, so that no one without a talent for non-precious metals might escape. 

"You." 

It was the only word Lehnsherr could get out, his mind to full of volcanic fury. The man, presumably a guard, lifted a single whiskery eyebrow, but said nothing more. 

"What's happened to him now? I know ...I know you didn't do _this_ ," Erik barked, almost shaking Charles' body in his arms in a telling show of anger. Finally, the onyx-dressed man spoke, "Prisoner X is currently in a stupor brought on by the physical reprimanding he only recently received. As it stands, that is neither of your concern or _care_ and I ask now that you please exit through the entrance. Ms. Frost awaits to return you topside." 

Erik denied the man, "no, absolutely not. Who are you? What are you? Are you the one who's been beating him senseless? What's happening to Charles? Will he be okay? I'm not leaving until you answer me, and sir, I suggest you do just that." 

Both eyebrows shot skyward, clearly unsuspecting that reaction from Erik. "Lt. Lehnsherr, I suggest you leave before you end up in here yourself." One of the guards fingers pointed around, making a circular pattern that told he meant the facility as a whole. 

Threats now. 

Erik calmly lifted himself up, laying Charles down gently onto the table, head resting on folded arms. 

The metal-bending homicide department leader was taller by nearly half a head, intimidating and impressive. "Excuse me? I don't believe I heard you correctly. Did you just openly threaten to imprison me based on my refusal to vacate your building?" Official now. But also prepared to fight dirty if it should come to that. 

Metal against metal. 

"Lt. Lehnsherr, the FBI has the right to hold for your forty-eight hours _without_ cause. Please, tell me now if that is your intention and I will see to it you have your way." 

Erik sighed, almost laughed at the man. "Tell me what's really happening to him and I will be on my merry way. He's part of an on-going investigation and if he won't be available for further interrogation, I should be granted knowledge as to why that is so." Erik's hand, initially meant to point to Charles, actually found itself landed against the unconscious man's throat. 

Erik stopped breathing. Frozen with fear. But _when_ ...had this occurred?

Feeling there now, it was... unmoving. Nothing.

No pulse. 

Charles had **no pulse.**

Erik spun around in abandon, hands pulling Charles' head back in unbidden urgency. He opened the man's mouth, placing a single hand at those paling lips and silently waited for the tell-tale sign of air being exhaled from a very much alive set of lungs. But nothing happened. No air, no breath. No breath meant no oxygen to the _brain_.

His heart had indeed, stopped cold. _But when_? 

Cold. 

"Gott verdammt, what the fuck is going on?!" Erik screamed, eyes spinning wildly, unable to focus. He couldn't lose Charles, not now. Not when he had only just met him. Not when Raven was counting on him. Not ...for himself when only a few minutes before he had felt the puffs of air from Charles. He knew he felt them. 

"Let him go, Lieutenant." 

A voice, proper, ice-like and now Erik grasped, deadly. Emma Frost. 

Erik turned to stare at her. The guard had moved to stand in one of the room's corners now, hands clutching tight to his baton. _'Fucking metal-bending asshole.'_ Erik though, aware of the irony. 

Then.

"Or what, I'll be your next prisoner?" Erik felt his blood as it boiled, rolling through his veins like liquid fire. And then it happened. As if willpower had left, retreated to fight another day.

The chains that held Charles suddenly broke off, falling to the floor in a high decibel clash. The metal sounded heavy and hard. But controllable nonetheless. Erik grabbed at the two red-sore wrists Charles lay claim to and began to rub at them feverishly, then remembered: not breathing. 

He picked up and hastily threw the telepath onto the table in a rush, spine to ceramic. Leaning over the still form Erik started to compress the spot just above the telepath's seemingly dead heart, then moved to clamp Charles' nose between two fingers as he forced his own air down into him. He repeated these steps without time for rest. 

But then Frost distracted him, "so you finally show us your true colors, Lt. Lehnsherr. Good to meet the mutant and not just the man." She moved closer, realizing Erik wouldn't fully pause to consider her, nor her words. 

"I had hoped you would have released Charles while he was still ...alive, but alas, you appeared set in your scheming ways. Which, for intents and purposes were all for naught." 

Erik stopped then, understanding. " _You_ did this to him? How?" 

Frost smiled politely, "oh sugar, he already told you. The only telepathic prisoner..." Erik remembered instantly, and promptly finished her sentence, "...but not the only telepath." 

Erik's hands fell to his sides, realizing there was nothing he could do so long as her influence was thrust upon Xavier. Sure, as a guest he was required to wear the neural inhibitor but Charles' skull was bare. He had heard of telepaths in the past who could slow heartbeats to appear as though a person were dead, even go so far as killing them for minutes at a time without any lasting effects on the subject once they had been revived. 

But this was Charles. Raven's Charles. A... new point of compassion for Erik, though he wouldn't admit that aloud. 

Erik knew he had to leave the facility to even think of sparing the mind-reader's life. But how could he, when one couldn't be certain of anything past this very moment? Would he live, die or worse, be tortured with this game of life and death everyday? The Lieutenant resigned himself to stay as long as he could at the thought, also believing that he wouldn't be simply let free of this place in the same manner with which he had entered. So why not stay and see this through–no matter how it may end for him. 

First things first though. Without moving, Erik sent flying a carefully crafted line of tightly-linked loops towards the man in the corner. Unsuspecting and unprovoked, the attack succeeded in dropping the stocky man to his knees, the strip running circles around the guard's fleshy pink throat. Getting tighter with each rotation. "You help Charles, I let that bastard live. My mutation is clearly greater than he, plus the lack of oxygen to his brain is counteracting any of his efforts to control the metal." 

Frost smirked at Erik, "kill him. He's not of import, honey. _You_ on the other hand..." 

Erik kept on with his metallic collar, not fully understanding Frost's words. Him what? Lehnsherr chose to ignore that comment it for the time being. 

A prison standoff now. 

"So, what's it going to be, Miss Telepath, will you save Charles or must I show the same level of care as he–only to you this time?" Erik gestured to the crippled form of the FBI guard as he spoke. 

Frost's grin widened. In the blink of an eye she went from a pale blond woman to a mirage of brilliant diamonds; refractions cut around her eyes, mouth, nose, ears–all shimmering with bright vivid blues and deep reds. Even her hair was constructed of diamond now.

Erik's mouth dropped, but _no_ , too much time was passing. It wasn't the hour to fight–Charles couldn't wait for that. So Lehnsherr let slip the strip of metal from the now-unconscious facility staff guard... but pulled the metal to him, just in case. 

A heavy sigh. Erik thought it smart bargain then. 

"Frost, is Charles even alive?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Gott verdammt" = Goddammit in German. 
> 
>  
> 
> Helloooooo! *waves sheepishly* I hadn't intended for the chapter update to take THIS long, but dammit, it did. I'm a slow-poster, so I understand if it's frustrating and you've given up hope on this one. But, I will promise this: I will see this story through. No matter how long in between chapters (really, I'm trying to get better!) I will never abandon this one. 
> 
> Super awesome special thanks to KoreArabin, spoonring, azryal, & TranslucentPioneer for your comments. Gott verdammt, you're the best of the best.<3


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